


Atrophy

by clehjett



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Murder, Consensual Non-Consent, Dark Will, Dark Will Graham, Denial, Denial of Feelings, Depressed Will Graham, Depression, Dubious Consent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Fights, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Murder, Murder Tableaus, Nice Hannibal Lecter, Obsessed Matthew Brown, Obsessive Behavior, Obsessive Hannibal Lecter, Panic Attacks, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Hannibal Lecter, Post-Episode: s01e08 Fromage, Prison, Prison!Will, Psychopath Matthew Brown, Romantic Hannibal Lecter, Sassy Will Graham, Season/Series 02, Self-Denial, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Soft Hannibal, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Tabloids, will graham saves himself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:07:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 47,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21680674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clehjett/pseuds/clehjett
Summary: Will withdraws and feels the hopelessness set in after being framed and imprisoned. He willingly loses his mind while Hannibal works to draw him out of it. Having lost hope and his friends, Will decides to depart the world.
Relationships: Alana Bloom & Will Graham, Alana Bloom/Will Graham, Matthew Brown & Will Graham, Matthew Brown/Will Graham, Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 508
Kudos: 1121





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously: suicide is no joke and if you have thought of it, stay away!

Nothing could quite prepare him for prison. Being incarcerated was one thing, but being imprisoned in a place that assumed you were mentally insane and psychotic was another. The deep aversion, apathy and disgust people felt towards him, and the utter disregard for his feelings, his thoughts and sanity were crippling. It was easy to see how people who were mentally unstable could easily spiral into full insanity in a place that had already forsaken you. It was a vicious, unforgiving cycle of abandonment, exacerbated by the fact he was here by the hand of the one person he thought he could trust. Will never did trust people easily, being so perceptive, he could not. But it  _ killed _ him that the one time he did, it was to the wrong person. 

Will had endless empty hours to reflect. Once he had peeled back the layers of the human to reach the monster underneath, it was like reaching the sickly rotten sweet core of a repulsive candy. The satisfaction and victory of finding the evidence of Hannibal’s betrayal in Will’s memories could not overshadow the fact that he of all people had been blind to it. Had he simply been that desperate for a friend? That a psychopath saying  _ just _ the right words could unlock his trust and erode his sanity down to its core. At the end, the black monster of Will’s dreams was not as fearsome as before, and it was the smiles, the kind words and softness of the friend that truly scared him. 

After the beratement had passed, the grief took him. He withdrew from everyone, particularly those he thought he could trust. Alana Bloom who was sweet but naive. Jack who assured him he would be his ‘anchor’ adrift at sea, when he had been just that – dragging him down into the depths. The unexpected visitor of Beverly, who sought his help, had been turned away anyway, just because the depths were too familiar now, and he could not care less for the lives of people who did not even care about him in return. 

Will had the vague sense that he was being spoken to. Whether by Chilton, or by Alana, or being pulled around and manhandled by apathetic nurses that cared not a whit about him. Will was determined to lose his mind in this can. The  poulter walls closed in around him, and even the kindly touch he had felt on his arms by an orderly that jolted him temporarily from his stupor could not break him out of it. The one thing he had said very early on was that he would not be seen by Hannibal Lecter. And he relished in the fact he would deny the devil his pet to torment. 

He refused to eat, and he did not remember if he was sleeping or just staring into space. He got the sense that Chilton was becoming increasingly frustrated at him. The trial was looming over the horizon, and soon Will’s dreams turned to death. He wondered if there would be pain, and he was afraid. He wondered if his eyes would burn in his skull. He wondered if Hannibal would come harvest his body after it had been tossed from the chair. He imagined a murder of crows that were somehow Hannibal, circling him as he was impaled on the head of a stag, feasting on his organs. It grieved him, but he would not cry. 

As he grew weaker still, Chilton resorted to extreme measures, ‘forced’ to shove a tube down his throat in order for Will to eat. That was the one and only time he made a sound – screaming and thrashing against the orderlies and guards. He would expel whatever it was back up again once he was in his cell. Chilton would fume and talk at him while Will tuned him out. He hated that he would wake at the mention of ‘Dr Lecter’ and how  disappointed or concerned he was at Will’s condition. Chilton was smart enough to know how sore Will was at the mention of him.

Will deteriorated, despite Chilton’s efforts, ranging from gentle to unethical. Matthew the orderly had taken to spoon feeding some soup to Will for half an hour each day, sometimes while Jack or Alana were present. But Will remained a blank wall. As far as he was concerned, he was already dead and he was glad to be rid of it all. 

Bit by bit, Will lost himself as he was alone in the darkness. He would lie in his cot as buzzers would sound once in a while, footsteps echoed, sometimes voices spoke quietly by his ear, trying to coax something out of him. When he was alone, he would sometimes rock himself, arms around his knees. Or tap his foot on the floor as he stared. His hands would glide over the scratchy cheap cotton and grip at the metal in times of painful imaginings. There was so much pain and so much anguish churning in the depths of his soul. Sometimes it felt like a physical mark had been left on him and that a phantom limb was hurting. The pain was as real to him as the visions in the dark that he saw. The face of his friend was replaced with the faces of a monster. Smiles were vicious knives that stabbed at him and hope became a foreign concept to him. 

In his days of grasping at straws, his fingers stumbled upon the sharpness of a metal plating under his bed. For a moment, he thought to flinch at the pain of the light cut to his fingers before he actually did it. And then, it occurred to him what that pain meant. Reaching without seeing, he pulled at the makeshift blade till it came loose in his palm. For the first time in weeks, he saw the room he was in. The plain walls, the bars, the emptiness of the hall. There was no one and nothing to witness. He was alone. Well and truly abandoned. No one would see him, no one did before, but finally, this would be the final time. 

Blindly, he brought the blade to his wrists, his fingers were weak from disuse and malnourishment. But he dug it into the flesh at his wrists, taking care to drag the steel across vital veins and soft meat the way he did his fish. And then it fell from his hand. Already he felt a tingle in his extremities. Already, the blood seemed brighter and more vibrant than he had seen in a long time. Already, he felt fear, despite embracing death repeatedly over the years, now that it was staring him down, he was surprised to be afraid. He lay back and stared at the ceiling. Willing himself away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RAmbling depression.
> 
> Inspiration from my own depression and suicide attempt but mine was more moving cars then a blade, though i did try that first. I didn't have the guts both times


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of Will's attempted suicide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of suicide, self-harm and depressive thoughts. 
> 
> Read at your own risk. 
> 
> For real.

Will had taken to scratching out his feelings. Ever since his discovery, bleeding out on his cot in his cell, to the removal, to the dramatic events – to his mind at least, since there was not much going on in his life at the moment – of the later dates, he had taken to trying to sort out his emotions. Before Hannibal, he had too much of it. Now, he had too little. The psychiatrist they assigned him was trying their best and Will could not fault them their disappointment. Frankly, he could feel their relief he did not seem to be actively suicidal now. In the sense, that convicted serial killers were – violently and frighteningly obsessed with death. The facility was the same one that Abigail had been installed in after she had been released from the hospital. Will tried to amuse himself with the knowledge that he was following in her footsteps. Hopefully to his own death. From the hospital and its confining bed rails and padded cuffs, to the soft but closely monitored surroundings of the Port Haven Psychiatric facility. Suicide watch was an interesting place to be. He had his own bed, his own small rooms – much like Abigail had – but he was watched almost every minute of the day. And routine – that was another annoying aspect of it – they insisted on a scheduled day for him, and there was almost always someone with him, even when he took a piss. He had traded the steel confines of one prison, to the silently judgemental and pitying looks of another. Where the prison was more of the apathetic disgust, here there was the quiet unassuming looks of sick pity. Will did not know what he preferred at the moment. He was just occupying his time with finding new and creative ways of hiding his pointy things. 

They would check his wounds, and then search him for new ones. The walls and rooms were so blank of personality – white walls, white sheets, white uniforms – Will added colour to that by staining his sleeves with the blossoming red of his cuts. He felt both sadness and glee at the dismay the nurses gave him when they found he had cut himself again. He also found himself unable to keep much food down. He would have bouts of nausea and vertigo. Headaches that were not like the ones he had before when his brain was infected, but one which bothered him off and on. His doctors told him this was normal, and prescribed him drugs to which he felt did not do much for him. He refused group therapy naturally, and they were exasperated by his lack of responses during his sessions. He refused visitations from anyone. Even Alana who offered to bring him his dogs. It made his stomach churn to think of them seeing him this way, though they were dogs and would not mind him no matter how he was. Jack Crawford had come within the first few days, while his cuts were still fresh and bleeding, wrecked with guilt and grief, and the tiniest bit of hope that Will would come work for him again. But Will spitting at him calmly words of poison had put that to bed quickly.

Much of his time is spent gazing out at the  scenery , wondering if Abigail had been seeing this as she thought about her father and mother. It seemed cruel to house Will in a recovery facility that she had been too. But they were ‘thoughtful’ enough not to put him in ‘her room’. He snuck in once, occupied as it was by someone else. It smelt different, the molecules in the air were changed. Will wondered if this was what Hannibal saw when he smelt people. Finding the traces of a person in the air – like reaching for ghosts in the abyss. 

All in all, he felt alone. Lonelier than he had been before. There was a smidgen of life in him compared to when he was imprisoned in the BSCHI. There was a comfort in the societal consensus that he was not ‘insane’, that he was not the Ripper, that he was just depressed and suicidal. It made everything better just a bit that people did not treat him like he was going to shiv them at any moment. Now it was more annoying rather than depressing that people treated him like he was going to fling himself from a window. 

The most invigorating of days were the days he spotted the shiny black expensive and ostentatious Bently parked outside the building. His heart would race and his mind would spark to life. He would wait for a few minutes before a kindly nurse would walk in telling him there was a visitor for him and ask him if he would like to see him, already knowing he would turn this one away too. The fact that Hannibal was even allowed into the facility and granted access to Will spoke volumes of his influence in the medical field. Not just at his power in persuasion, and his deep connection to the FBI of all places – since he was still considered a flight risk, a person of interest to the FBI and still a minor employee. But mostly that, Will had already made it clear of his ‘no visitor’ rule, and yet here he was. It excited him and sickened him in equal measure that Hannibal was taking such lengths to see him and reach out to him, but also that he was the focus of such attentions. But Will determined himself to be resolutely away from his grip. He would not slip into his clutches again, not while he was so vulnerable – while his heart and soul reached out for the human connection to the devil on the inside and the outside that could understand him, but also more importantly and annoyingly got him in here in the first place. 

“He said you might not want to.... So, he asked if he could leave this here.” The nice nurse said. She lifted her arms to reveal a small insulated bag, no doubt filled with warm homemade foods for him. Will suppressed the need to roll his eyes at Hannibal’s compulsive need to feed him, but also at the clear subtle manipulation to worm his way back into Will’s good graces. Will chose not to acknowledge the gift, nodding to the woman and turning away from her. 

Will already knew what would be in it. People no doubt, freshly cooked with nourishing properties meant to heal and nurture. Will ruminated on the irony that the flesh of the human dead could replenish a human that was living dead. He already knew that that first sip of that soup would be more appetising than anything Will could eat here, and his appetite would return, not just at the skill of its cook, but also in the receiving of this gift of life, offered by the darkest of foes. He stared down at the innocent looking blue bag, already knowing it was packed away in small expensive containers of crock ware. He could not think to what else Hannibal would put into it besides his favoured ingredient, his possessive focus on him, and the sinking feeling of anticipation of Will back into his arms again. He slowly got up, and put the bag at the  nurses' station, telling them to eat the food. Ignoring their gentle encouragement for him to eat it himself, kindly words that Will accepted with a soft smile, he left it in their care. Will could not help his starvation – both of the food and the human contact. He needed to get back on track again, finding a way to survive. He needed to. He just needed to get out of this funk that dampened his mood and killed his will to live. But he also did not have the motivation to do it either. 

The only thing he was certain of, was that he would not be accepting the freely given help by the doctor of death.

* * *

Waking up groggy, bandaged and cuffed to a hospital bed seemed the better of situations to be waking up in, in Will’s opinion. But it also was not what he wanted. He had wanted to drift off into his stream and stay there. But it seemed that the cards were stacked against him. As consciousness streamed back to him, he became aware of his surroundings. The ache at his wrists that was dull but faintly keen, bandaged up to the middle of his arm. He could feel the stitches moving as he did. He could hear the faint beeping noises of the machines around him. The softness of the pillow under his head felt like a cloud compared to the lump of cotton of his cot in his cell. His feet were cuffed in soft padded leather to the bed, and his nose was itching for the breathing tube strapped across his face. Instinctively, and also because Will wanted to be a dick about it, he ripped the plastic from his face, and began prodding and pulling at his bandages. In a moment of sheer disappointment, with tears stinging his eyes, he began pulling at his restraints and prying up the bandages. 

Instantly, the beeping of the machines went off, but Will did not care to know if it was because he had messed with the breathing tube, or if his heart was just hammering that fast. Several warm bodies immediately burst in and began restraining him. Will struggled as hard as he could, despite the lack of strength in him, them keeping him from ripping out his stitches again. He heard the voice of Jack Crawford calling him, telling him to be calm, trying to sooth, but it only made him angrier at the false comfort it wanted to bring him. He hated him, he hated them all. Fuck all of them. Fuck everything. He thrashed and grunted, kicking as far as his feet could allow. He hated that sinking feeling when he saw the large tall brown shape of Hannibal Lecter walk in, and his voice telling him to be calm. He fought against it as hard as he could until someone had the good sense to slip something into his neck, and he was gone. 

The waves of disappointed grief over the coming days had Will near catatonic. The hospital staff are told who he is and what he is accused of, and treat him accordingly. The one saving grace is that they are respectful and sensitive to his situation. They understand despair and suicide and do not fault him it. The one good thing about the fanciness of Johns Hopkins is its quality of staff, and Will knows without asking, who had asked for him to be transferred there for the few days he is recovering. Will refuses to see or hear anyone. Not even the doctors that ask him questions. Jack Crawford. He glares at and ignores even when he starts talking about Hannibal asking to see him. He knows Jack suspects but is not convinced of Hannibal’s true identity, but he also cannot allow Will to simply be cut loose while he still feels guilty for ‘breaking him’ in the first place. 

Will is eventually relieved to be released back into Chilton’s custody, who is annoyed that the trial has been delayed indefinitely pending a psychological evaluation of Will. Chilton informs him that Lounds has run a scathing speculative article about his attempted suicide – raving about his motives to delay the trial and garner sympathy from the jury, the stall in the Ripper proceedings, the confusion thrown into the psychiatric and FBI community about why he would do such a thing. Lounds was kind enough to throw a nugget of truth into it, in her own way, implying that perhaps Will had been coerced by an outside help, or that Chilton had been manipulating him into thinking such thoughts, particularly so close on the heels of Abel Gideon being remanded into his custody yet again. 

Will is having none of it, not being here to be Chilton’s gossip goose. He collapses into his new holdings - a padded cell that is a glass walled on one side. Will feels right properly dissected the way Chilton would have wanted him years ago. He finally is where people think he belongs – in a glass cage to be prodded and poked. He lets the emptiness consume him even as people come and go. And every day feels a chore to keep his head up. Matthew the orderly still attempts to feed him daily, and it is his gentle touch and voice that Will seems most comforted by in the cold padded room. 

He is too out of it to realise why of all the people that have come see him, that it is this particular orderly which sparks life into him – too lost in his grief to notice the sharpness in his eyes, the blood in his smile, and the  possessiveness in his touch. In hindsight, Will realises with some annoyance how Matthew had been the one good thing about the entire situation, and the reason why he was so drawn to him was how similar, but not the same, he was to him and Hannibal. The irony amuses him much later, but even as the days pass, and Will lets himself be touched and moved, he finds that he is grateful that at least he can avoid Hannibal. 

But even he knows, he cannot avoid him forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This week is super depressing for me. I didnt get the job i went for an interfview for. Im super depressed at my current intership position.... I just want to roll over. 
> 
> I feel Will man, i feel him


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's time at the BSCHI is ending and he deals with the aftermath of his attempt and Hannibal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My parents took my quitting my internship well. Which alleviates some tension when it does end. I decided to resign and i'm feeling slightly better at the prospect. 
> 
> Still oddly tense and depressed. And i'm chanelling it as best as I can. 
> 
> I really really thank every one that left an encouraging comment. Its so good of you to do that. I really appreciate it :3

Will wished he were anywhere but here. But try as he might he was trapped in reality. He was benumbed as people carried him around, coaxing him to eat but unable to draw a sound from him except in protest when they did bring out the feeding tube for him. Gradually, they realised that Matthew was the only one who was able to get Will to eat, and Chilton begrudgingly allowed him to enter his little padded corner of oblivion three times a day. Matthew Brown was more than happy to oblige, chatting softly to Will to encourage him to eat and interact with someone outside his own head. He felt like a golem of emotion and thought, unable to speak or feel anything beyond the dumb pain in his body and mind. Matthew would keep talking at him though, every day at every meal time. Spooning dribbles of soup into his lips and paying careful attention to him. He would check on his wrists every morning at bath time, and Will would dimly register how disturbing it was for an orderly to pay such care to sponging down every inch of him. Will knew he should care but he would remind himself that it did not matter in the end, and allowed it. Until one day, Will finally spoke. He did not know why, or how, but he felt the sudden urge to bite back. 

“It really hurt when you went away those few days, Mr Graham...” Matthew said conversationally. 

“Well, I'm sure it must have been painful for you.” Will quipped. It took a moment for Matthew to shake the shock from his face after hearing Will’s voice for the first time in a while, but it was replaced with the unlikeliest of things – a smile. 

“What matters is you’re safe now, Mr Graham.” Matthew smiles, spooning another portion of the soup into Will’s mouth, careful not to push him too far in fear of making him withdraw into his shell again. For the first time in a long time, Will tastes the metal of the cheap spoon, the blandness of the soup on his tongue, notices all the sensations of what is happening around him. As if Matthew’s focus on him has drawn his mind back to the land of the living. 

“Am I?” Will sighs, looking down at himself. He realises he’s been in a catatonic state for such a long time, the restraining jacket they put on him has escaped his notice. His wrists are bound and comfortable and he’s sitting up against the corner of his padded cell. Matthew only smiles, and spoons another up to Will’s lips, waiting for him to take a sip. He wonders if this has been going on for a while, and if he has been receptive to Matthew’s spoon feeding or has this been the first time, he’s actively taken a mouthful in a while. It was like waking to a very vivid dream. 

“Don’t worry, Mr Graham. I’ll keep you safe.” Matthew vows ominously. Will stares but finds his self-preservation instinct has been shut off and still has not been rebooted despite his conscious state, and simply accepts it. 

Over the next few days, Matthew tries to get Will to maintain a conversation with him, actively chatting to try and strike up a rapport with him. In this time, the hospital wing feels livelier to Will. He's aware that Chilton has suddenly made an appearance, curious as to Will’s awakened state after weeks of catatonia. Of course, when Chilton attempts the same, Will stubbornly would give him the silent treatment and stonewalls his attempts at being a moderately competent psychiatrist. He leaves disappointed and, in a huff, much to the amusement of both Will and Matthew. Will realises that Matthew is the one in charge of Will’s care, having to feed him daily, take him out of his binds to treat his wrists – to which when Will gets a glance at them, they look sickly and purple, raw with violence; it nearly unnerves him – and bathe him much to Will’s chagrin and Matthew’s satisfaction. It can no longer be denied that Matthew has a special attraction to Will and that Will has noticed that Matthew is not all as sane as he appears to be. Or as sane as society seems to define it. 

On a day that seems significant to Will, they finally allow him out of the restraining jacket. By this time, Will’s damaged hands are deemed fit enough to only require patch band-aids, the stitches removed and he is no longer deemed ‘at risk’. To himself or others, it seems is really the question on everyone’s mind. Matthew smiles encouragingly at Will when he is let out of the restraints, and lets him stare at his Frankenstein-ed wrists, though under the watchful eye of several staff. The entire activity tires Will out and he collapses back into his corner and ignores the audience come to witness his return to the functional living. Matthew, never deterred, tries to get Will to eat some and coax him out of his contemplative shell, but Will ignores him in favour of staring morosely at his hands. Now that the reality of his situation and the delicate limbo of suicidal delicacy has passed, it has Will back in his more depressive moods. The trial will proceed as planned, and Will’s guilt is all but assured. 

“You’re not alone, Mr Graham.” Matthew says to him when they are alone. “I’m right here with you.” 

“I will always be alone.” Will sighs. 

“No, you won’t.” Matthew insists, taking Will’s arms gently at the middle. “I know you, and you know me, remember?” 

Will turns in confusion to see Matthew’s hawk like gaze on him. “I do? What did I say?” Will shudders to recall what he could have said in his catatonic confusion. Matthew only smiles and lowers him down to lie on his lap. 

“You flayed me open, Will.” Matthew’s eyes turned flinty and hard, intense with a light that had Will thinking of the way Hannibal would stare at him. It made his heart beat to life in a way it had not for a while. “You told me my life’s story, and you didn’t even know you were doing it...” 

Will looked away in shock; surprised at himself. He supposed he had never lost his touch, his inner eyes as it were, his brain still on auto-pilot and very much intrigued by the macabre. Matthew’s face grew closer still, cornering Will further. 

“We’re hawks, Mr Graham.” Matthew whispered. “And we’re stronger together.” Will frowned, as Matthew’s gaze intensified. His motives seemed clear now and Will shuddered, with real anticipation or fear, he could not tell. 

“Brown.” 

Matthew turns and sees Chilton leaning against his cane. He easily rearranges his expression to one of submission and pulls Will to sit up against his chest. From the shadows behind Chilton, emerges a figure of Will’s nightmares. For a moment, he sees the antlers, the smooth round head of the darkness. And then it morphs into the smooth silhouette of Hannibal, recognising it as his immaculately styled hair instead. Immediately, Will’s hands grab at Matthew. His breathing accelerates and his heart pounds. He's not ready, not ready to face him. He's too weak. Can't do it. 

“ _No_.” Will moans. “No. I don’t want to see him.” he shakes his head, burying his face into Matthew’s chest. He smells like disinfectant and cleaner, but it's better than the memories behind his lids – the expensive smell of wine, the sandalwood of Hannibal’s car seats. The barest touch on his cheek as a tube pushes down his throat that the feeding tube used to remind him of. He cringes at every memory and he shakes. 

Matthew holds him tight and placing his mask of ‘concerned orderly’ on, he says to Chilton. “He don’t want no visitor, Doc. He’s upset.” 

Chilton frowns. Matthew looks past him to see the man Will has named the devil, taking in the smooth façade, the carefully blank face. But his eyes; 5though they are dead, but Matthew sees him focus onto Will in Matthew’s arms. The pupils' strain with emotions that cannot be controlled, not even with the most fine-tuned of person suits. There are several emotions and thoughts that run through those eyes; one of Will’s immediate wellbeing, and another of the potential threat to his hold over Will’s psyche – Matthew. 

Just as Chilton is about to protest, the doctor says, “Perhaps, we should allow Will this time.” Much to Chilton’s surprise. “We should let the staff do their work... We would not wish to inflict more suffering on Will.” Hannibal’s eyes flash to Chilton, who is dim enough not to catch the accusation of abuse behind the sentence. But Matthew is not. He eyes the Ripper with fresh eyes, and feels in awe that this man is so in control of everything and everyone. But one thing. 

Will. 

“You got too close didn’t you...” He whispers into Will’s ear, who still shivers at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. “You got close enough he had to cripple you.” Will does not open his eyes, even as footsteps echo away, and Matthew sees Doctor Lecter eye him before he too, turns away. Will visibly relaxes as they are left alone again, eyes slowly opening. Will tries to extricate himself from the burrow he has made in Matthew’s arms, but he is too weak. He huffs in exasperation and fatigue from the emotional and physical toll it takes on him and scowls down at himself. 

“You’re stronger than you think, Mr Graham.” Matthew continues. “I can help you. We can beat him together....” 

Will scoffs, shaking his head as he feels the gentle touch of lips at his forehead. “You can't beat him. He’s the devil. He is smoke.” Matthew finally releases him to lay down on the padded ground. He looks up at the face of the hawk again to find smug determination in his face. He tries not to feel bereft at the lack of physical touch, and scowls when he does. Matthew notices as he always does and smiles down at his charge. After squaring everything away, haphazardly folding the jacket and tucking it under his arm, he rises after stroking a loving hand through Will’s now long and gangly curls. 

* * *

Will's appetite and attitude deteriorates after Hannibal’s attempted visit. He refuses even Matthew, who is distraught when he is taken off Will’s feeding duty. Will hears him arguing with Chilton; “But he knows me, sir...” he lisps in his faux timid voice. “He trusts me.” 

“You’re too close to him, Brown. This will only impede his recovery if he depends on you for a crutch.” Chilton pats away. Will does not need to see Matthew’s face to know he is snarling on the inside. The words of wisdom Chilton speaks sound too intelligent for his pea brain, and both Will and Matthew know who really put the thought into his mind. 

Will withdraws from everyone. He feels physically ill and nauseous, every time someone tries to coax him into taking a bite of sloppy soup, he cringes and gags. Matthew stares at him with the most bleeding concern and worry, it honestly makes Will a bit sicker at the sight. He rocks himself in his corner and tries to calm his breathing but his heart feels like lead. He does not need to know why he feels like he is stewing with fear. The nausea he feels at the thought of eating is exacerbated by the nausea gained from his hunger. 

He knows what is to come and it fills him with terror. After Abel Gideon’s mysterious disappearance from the infirmary following an unfortunate ‘accident’, Will knows he is not safe from Hannibal, even behind the glass of his cage. And if Hannibal could just waltz in to visit him, after he explicitly said never to admit Hannibal as a visitor – meaning that his ‘rights’ as a sane person are being ignored now in favour of a star psychiatrist, it tells him that he cannot labour under the impression that Chilton will respect his wishes anymore. 

When Hannibal comes for him eventually, he scrabbles away, terrified when they let him into his glass cage, inching as far as he can into the soft walls that refuse to swallow him. Hannibal approaches slowly, like hunter approaching a frightened prey and bends down to his level. Will cringes and grasps his arms, curling himself into a ball, trying to breathe. He gasps in fear when Hannibal grabs his arms away from himself to prevent his cuts from pulling open and it only terrifies him more, feeling like Hannibal is going to reach into his chest and wrench out his heart. 

“No. No! Get back!” Will whimpers. Hannibal's grip is so tight he feels like they are burning into his skin and he gasps with breath that does not seem to fuel his lungs. Hannibal holds him until his strength peters out, and he is left sagging in Hannibal’s grip in the corner. Hannibal calmly waits for his fit of panic to calm, staring into Will’s eyes wide with fear. Will reads the calmness of the psychiatrist, but also a hint of sadness that confuses him. Hannibal's eyes eventually lower and bringing his wrists together before him, he regards them with the clinical precision of a doctor. But Will notices the edge of gentleness that Hannibal does; the soft swipe of thumbs, the soft stroke of a palm. 

“Why would you do this, Will?” Hannibal laments, a sad anger in his voice. Will’s ire sparks at the disappointment in Hannibal’s tone. As if it was his right to be, as if this was Will’s choice to be here, as if he had any right to his life; after all he did. He scowls openly at Hannibal now, mindful not too seem aggressive to rouse the concern of the orderlies beyond the glass. 

Will’s eyes flash to Hannibal’s. And he seethes; “I am not going to wait around for you to finish playing with your food...” Hannibal stares him down evenly and sombrely. “All of this, is just my way of escaping you.” 

Hannibal’s eyes are dark and blaze with quiet fury. But he holds tightly but gently unto Will and his gaze is unwavering and intense, Will almost cannot match it. His old habit of avoiding eyes tries to make a comeback, and his lack of decent human contact in months has led him to be averse to it, but Wil soldiers on, unwilling to show his weakness. 

Hannibal only whispers, “This isn't you, Will.” 

“No.” Will whispers with a certainty he has not felt since he met Hannibal. “This is not _what you want me to be_...” 

Will cannot know for certain if what he says will deter Hannibal from whatever plans he has for him and simply let him die, but he sees Hannibal’s posture sag just slightly at his words. The face of the Ripper is a mask of neutrality but Hannibal’s hands still holding Will’s wrists twitch imperceptibly – but it might as well have been a flinch for him. Will does not know what kind of wrench he thrown into Hannibal’s plans, but he knows he is already adjusting for it right at that moment. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KUDO and Subcribe :D
> 
> Right now, i'm unhappy with how this chapter ends but i'm so depressed i cannot really be assed. I rounded it off best I can so its my best either way
> 
> 25/3/2020: LOOK AT THIS AMAZING ART BY [TONY OF THE TREES](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0ddf44d90340f164e88850c9b6534864/b4115a29ffac3289-bd/s540x810/81e3996b147b681bf9aad7113888e3e06a3f37c5.png)! THANK YOU SO MUCH ITS AMAZING


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is faced with new challenges and his will to live is tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you each and every one of you for the kind comments. I feel much better now that i'm not working, but there still is a depression and guilt for 'quitting' in the first place. When everyone tells you the best thing to do is just tough it out and work, and your parents are insensitive to your mental health, it takes a toll.
> 
> But i'm feeling optimistic despite the depression. The meds might be affecting my sleep though, i keep waking up in the middle of the night.
> 
> This fic has morphed from a cathartic depression exercise into something nice and pleasant. More hopeful. I have a rough idea what I want and even though i detest classical romance tropes i can't help myself, it makes me hopeful for a future ya know? 
> 
> I think it will be a happy ending. its up to interpretation. I've met some people that hate Hannigram and nay say their love for each other so its up to you if its a bad ending.
> 
> WE SHALL SEE HUE HUE HUE

When Will Graham says things were ‘dramatic’, it genuinely should be believed that it was dramatic. Events began escalating and unfolding rapidly before everyone’s eyes. Will is surprised how no one can see it is practically a performance that is being put on by the Ripper. He wonders if he really is the only one that can see Hannibal for what he is, and then realises; yes, he probably is. Miriam Lass is found, alive after two years in a hole in the ground after a tree man is found in an empty lot. Abel Gideon is found, dead and in Chilton’s home. If it were not so amusing, Will would feel sorry for the poor bugger. According to the very chatty staff, Chilton had tried to make a break for it and failed spectacularly by placing his trust in the wrong people; or just simply misjudged his relationship with them. As patsies went, Will does not understand how anyone could believe that Chilton of all people is the infamous killer, even he is in agreement with Freddie Lounds who denounces it all as a ‘sick play’ and the FBI being fools for following the breadcrumbs of obvious evidence. What disturbs Will is the delicate planning that Hannibal had to take with the particular tableau of the tree. Weeks of seeding and growing a tree into a human body, just for the sake of a dramatic reveal. It told Will Hannibal had been planning this even before his suicide attempt. 

Will feels more awake than before, as someone comes to tell him that he has been exonerated and freed of all charges. He expects the FBI to slip him a generous fee in exchange for his silence for wrongful imprisonment. He at least, is thankful that he is out of the reach of Freddie Lounds, who is apparently desperate to gain an interview with him. The new administrator is quick to secure Will into the Suicide Watch program, before Will can utter much protest. Not that it would do him much good, Will knows, since society and _someone in particular_ refuses to let him kill himself. _For his own protection_. Will is being transferred to a psychiatric facility for treatment for his depression and his apparent ‘post-traumatic stress disorder’. Will would just simply call it being cut up and sold to the butcher for stew. Matthew is devastated, having been let back into Will’s cell to prepare him for his transfer, he is desperate for any amount of time with Will. “Mr Graham...” He would whisper, apologising every time he was near him. 

“I won’t let him take you... I won’t.” He whimpered. Will only sighed and let Matthew move him any which way he wants, holding him to his chest in a tight hug and nuzzling his hair against his cheek, the way he used his own body to shield him from Hannibal that first day he came to visit. Matthew now is the only one who seems interested in Will’s welfare – while the general staff feel guilty at treating Will like an insane person, most are not as intense in their care as Matthew, for obvious reasons. Now that he is proven innocent, the staff allow Will greater freedom, not that he takes advantage of it much. Will again is apathetic about his release from prison; not the least because he is not really ‘free’, in the literal and metaphorical sense. Security around him has laxed enough, Will knows he could attempt to escape, and he knows if he asked Matthew – and he would be more than willing if he did – to help him get out. But he also is under no illusions that he would be trading one psychopath for another. Matthew would follow him wherever he went. Much like another obsessive killer Will knows. But where else could he go even if he left? His home is empty of all meaning – his dogs taken from him, and he knows he is in no condition to care for them now, less so than before. He will not go back to Jack Crawford for all the obvious reasons, as well as for the fact that it will lead him right to Hannibal. 

Even if he chooses to allow Matthew to have his way with him, what kind of life would that be? Will does not even have the energy to fathom it. All his energy is consumed with just existing, because he is tired of everything and everyone. Tired of the intrigue and games of Hannibal, tired of caring about people and victims that turned on him the minute evidence points his way, made more attractive by his general instability. He has no feeling for the righteous path or the darkness that has been bleeding out from him since he came here. Hannibal saw to it he had no choice but to face it, but now he just does not care enough to think about it anymore. He is past caring for himself anymore. Will has nothing to live for. The only thing he could have cared about is his little canine family, but even he knows Alana well enough for her to find good homes for them. They would outlive him, and he is glad of it. 

Matthew grows increasingly more despondent when Will remains unresponsive to his pleas for cooperation. Taking him into his arms, and whispering words of exaltation and asking him to come away with him, promising him freedom if he would just ask. Will never responds, only gazes at him with sad eyes. Only once does he speak, and only to warn him, “Don’t try to go against him, Matthew. You don’t know what you’re up against...” 

“I can’t lose you, Will... I can’t.” Matthew cries. Will sighs at this hopeless obsession. And tries to extricate himself from Matthew’s hold as he always does. But even he knows he is a lost cause; with the way it feels so comforting and safe in the arms of a killer. Will knows how cruel desperation is, and he dreads to think what Matthew would resort to. Later when he is told what happened, he wonders why he does not feel regret or grief and ponders his sudden apathy when he has always been defined as the opposite. He laments the loss of a person he found comfort in, but he feels no pain that someone would do such a thing for him. He wonders if the lack of guilt makes him a bad person. But he cannot muster enough emotion to care. 

* * *

Will languishes in the psychiatric facility for a few more weeks before Hannibal finally comes for him for good. He expects it when the staff tell him that ‘special arrangements’ have been made for him and that he is being transferred into the care of a good psychiatrist, who will monitor and integrate him back into society gradually. Will does not need to ask his name, but when it is given, he feels like he is going to break down in tears. The nurse who sees his face crumple, even though he dips his head to hide the tears and is immediately concerned but misinterprets it for anxiety and not despair. Just when he thought he could escape Hannibal, he is reeled right back in. He feels the dart of the harpoon in his side, digging in, and slowly dragging him bodily on the ground back to the thorny dark of the forest. Will may dig his nails into the dirt to try and stop it, but to no avail. He is too weak, too small and too sad. He feels like a hysterical Victorian maid; helpless and frail, waiting for death to come as the men around her abuse her. 

The day comes when Hannibal arrives to take him to his home, his ‘new home’ for the foreseeable future. Will does not know whether he will live to see another day once he sets foot in Hannibal’s car, but he is hopeful that at least it will be swift. At least, his body will be displayed beautifully. But even that provides little but cold comfort. 

“Hello, Will.” Hannibal smiles demurely at him. Will jumps from his drifting contemplation that had taken him so far away. He turns to find the man in his long tan overcoat. Will’s meagre bag of clothes that were provided for him, and his coat that he was arrested in is draped over Hannibal’s arm. He frowns and risks a look into Hannibal’s eyes. They are pleasant and empty of expectation, but there is a buzzing sense of excitement in him. All it does is drain Will of his own. He sighs, and turns from the window, which view he has been staring at for the past few weeks. He is afraid but he is sure that even if he were to shout it from the mountain top, he could do nothing to stop it. The last time he had left to go somewhere with Hannibal, and stepped into the ominous black car waiting for him, he had gone down a rabbit hole so dark he had not returned the same. In fact, he might not have returned at all. He wonders if Hannibal can see how changed he is now, how broken. He wonders if he regrets anything or if this is all part of his design. For as much as he can see Hannibal past his suit now, he cannot discern his motives. It is clouded with his own feelings, his fear and anger. 

The drive up to his Wolf Trap home to pack up his possessions is silent and tense. Will makes an effort to be as empty as possible, ignoring the eyes he feels on him. When he pushes his door open, he sees furry bodies of his little dogs dashing out of his door, and the sight nearly has him in tears. The smile he sports feels so uncomfortable and strange to him – it is like his face had been caked in cement and it had cracked under the pressure of his sudden exuberance. He kneels to better embrace them, and they give him the love they had been holding back in his absence. They are confused at his smell and his general aura, but they are keen to make up for lost time. He tries to ignore Alana who stands there watching them, tense and awkward. But when his eyes lift to see her look to Hannibal – her eyes telling him the entire story in a single glance – an expression of uncertain affection and looking to him for support and comfort to face an entity, her friend whom she had seriously lost faith and also met with harsh realities she had not wanted to witness. The look gives Will all he needs to know, and his smile dies. He arranges his face into one of calm neutrality, one he knows Alana will recognise for what it is, but he finds he is apathetic to her feelings for now. He straightens slowly and nods to her. 

“Alana.” He greets her. He is uncertain why he feels betrayal, knowing that Alana is sleeping with Hannibal. She had always admired him; he always could read that much from her. But she was always practical enough not to initiate an affair with a man she idolises. Will knows this is a deliberate move on Hannibal’s part, and he is almost certain it happened right after Matthew Brown attacked Hannibal and forced him to face the reality of Will’s situation. Will does not know whether this is vengeance for his particular attachment to Matthew, and his obsession with Will, but he knows this will blind Alana to him and cuts off a potential ally. For as well-meaning as Alana is, she still is ruled by her emotions. It had worked in Will’s favour in the past, but now that he is well and truly alone, it only serves Hannibal. 

“Hello, Will.” She smiles pleasantly. He wonders what could be running through her mind about him – seeing him fall from unsightly grace, doubting his sanity, finding out that he tried to kill himself, and then finding out he was innocent the entire time. There is no small amount of pity and regret emanating from her, from everyone that Will knows, and he has no doubt there will be no shortage of sympathies and apologies to come. But he has no patience for it, especially now. He nods at her and her smile falters when met with his blank expression of withdrawal. The man she knew is dead, and she must try to adapt to it. Perhaps, she would cease her pointless struggle to see the best in him, and maybe leave him alone now. She steps forward when Will takes the collar of a sandy grey dog. He pushes it gently towards her and hands it to her. 

“I believe this is yours.” Will ducks his eyes to avoid her disappointment. All the same, his imagination supplies her sad smile, trying to alleviate the awkwardness of the interaction, as a good psychiatrist would. 

“Yes. That’s Applesauce. She likes applesauce.” She supplies helpfully. She clips on the leash unto the good girl, who lolls about as Will’s dogs nose her with affection. “Thought I'd take a page out of your book.” 

“Picking up on my bad habits.” Will bends to stroke at the roving bodies of fur again, trying to bury his head in their mindless emotions. But he sees Alana anyway, her sadness and regret. 

“Your good habits actually...” she smiles encouragingly. It reminds Will of Abigail. Of how she tried to reach out to her and be a friend rather than her psychiatrist in order to gain trust. Will sighs. This is why therapy never works on him. 

“Well.” Will stands. “Thank you for looking after them.” he nods. “I probably will have to trouble you some more with them, but if you can’t look after them, I won't’ mind if you send them to foster homes...” 

“No, I would never do that, Will. It's no trouble at all.” Alana is quick to reassure him, waving her arms in a calming gesture. Will does not believe it. “They’ve been sweet angels. Even Winston, even though he keeps running off to find you...” she laughs, trying to connect with him. That titbit breaks Will’s heart, instantly seeing Winston escaping into the cold night, padding down a dark highway much like the night Will had found him, looking for Will. Maybe he had thought if he returned to the stretch of land he had been found or going back to the Wolf Trap home, Will might have been there, waiting for him. The thought fills him with greater pain at how much he has failed these innocent creatures and Will nods, face taciturn. Feeling Hannibal’s presence at his back, he passes Alana flanked by his pack and trudges into the house. He does not feel the sting of fear he should turning his back on a predator, nor leaving an innocent lamb behind him. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is swallowed by the Beast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I done fucked up. I tried to put all my drafts in chronological order then it came out weird. To quote Charles Leclerc: "I am Stupid. I am stupid..."

Hannibal knocks on Will’s door, and manoeuvres it open with his hip. He finds what he expects to find; Will sitting up in bed, head turned to the windows Hannibal has installed to prevent ‘suicide’ but really is akin to prison window bars to Will. 

“I made something light for you, Will.” Hannibal steps in with the tray of soup. 

“I’m not hungry...” Will murmurs, still looking away. His hands are tucked on his lap and his face is blank and morose, but it is healthier than Hannibal last saw it when he was under Chilton’s care. Not least the which that most haunts Hannibal, Will’s purple and wild eyes as he thrashed when he woke in the hospital after his suicide attempt. 

“Please, at least take a few sips to carry you through the night. You have not eaten at all today.” 

“I’m not hungry, really.” Will inclines his head towards him. That is the most he has gotten out of Will all day, since he has arrived in his home, and Hannibal is inclined to accept it. Nevertheless, he places the tray on the bed next to Will, and sits in the chair next to him. 

“I must insist, Will.” Hannibal says sternly. Will’s mouth tightens just a fraction and he nods. 

“I’ll feed myself.” 

“Forgive me for not trusting you, but I would like to make sure you do eat it.” Hannibal replies. 

Will’s brow twitches as Hannibal dips the spoon into the hot bowl, and carefully raises it to Will’s lips. This time, Will turns to face him with the most serious face of utter discomfort. Swallowing his nausea, both at his living situation, and the fact that food is being fed to him, he opens his mouth. Somehow, for some reason he cannot fathom, Will holds Hannibal’s gaze as he lets him dip the spoon into his mouth, and then press his lips down unto it as he takes the fluid Hannibal ladles into his mouth. He is unsure what or how Hannibal would take such a gesture as he wilfully swallows the spoonful of chicken soup, but he can see it has had an effect on him. Hannibal’s eyes have darkened and his gaze is intense. Will drops his own eyes to his lap and he frowns. He is unsure if he is trying to unnerve himself or Hannibal more with what he just did. But his brain has apparently shut down higher functions and he is operating out of instinct. What this says about his natural instinct, Will shudders to think. 

Will stares incredulously as Hannibal spoons another round of soup and lifts it to Will's mouth again, waiting for him to take a sip. This time, Will carefully examines him in his mind’s eye. Feeling the familiarity hit him yet again. 

_Matthew._

Was Hannibal trying to erode Will’s memories of him by replacing it with memories of him instead? Pressing down on the indelible marks of another by pressing marks of his own unto Will’s skin? 

Will cannot seem to control his smirk; he hides it under the guise of looking down but he cannot help but tease. Self-preservation thrown to the wind; he decides to needle Hannibal. “Did it bother you that Matthew fed me every day?” Hannibal only regards Will silently, but Will knows that with him, that is as good as an affirmative answer. Will scoffs, “What? Are you going to bathe me yourself now?” 

Hannibal’s eyes twinkle at the challenge, and Will cringes at his own words. He makes a note to cease blurting out his thoughts so carelessly. But even as he considers Hannibal, he finds that he is deeply satisfied by what he has found. It truly killed Hannibal to know that Matthew had been the one Will had turned to for comfort. That Matthew was the one who Will had used as a buffer for his own mental stability while he was imprisoned, by Hannibal’s hand no less, and come to terms with the darkness he was lost in. Matthew was a variable he had not factored into his plans. He had wanted Will to be lost and broken in order to be reborn. He had also not expected Will to take suicide as a way out. It had thrown a new element into his plans that he was unprepared to deal with. Matthew had then used that as a way to get into Will, thus derailing Hannibal entirely. Hannibal therefore harboured regrets for his hasty course of action, and thus regretted everything. And if Will felt the slightest bit of satisfaction at causing Hannibal pain, he did not care. 

* * *

Will had spent his days at Port Haven in self-examination. He found that he was completely apathetic. He somehow could not care anymore. For a moment there is panic that he is broken. As he wanders the halls and he read the room; he finds that he is not overwhelmed by the patients here. In fact, he cannot feel anything at all. It was like walking through a field of thorns feeling the gentle patter of petals instead. He had just the tinge of empathy to read that most people were hurting in some way, and there was a pity, but he was not lost in their pain the way he would before. His vivid imagination always supplied him realities that were not his own and empathised too deeply with others. He had always made it a point to avoid places like this in the past, along with mental hospitals. He remembered visiting his elderly grandmother with his father once, and it had been a nightmare. Will could almost believe he was old, senile and terribly alone and abandoned. Come to think of it, it might have had some lingering effect in his life – since he always felt abandoned and alone despite a lack of expectations socially. Or perhaps, it simply was just his own unstable emotions warring with his darkness that made him isolate himself. Either way, he had never felt his head so silent before then. 

Beverly is a welcome visitor, the only one he can stand to be around for a few minutes at a time. She comes to him with a kindness and lack of judgement, and most importantly lack of guilt that makes it comfortable to be around. To her it is procedure and she is not unkind. She informs of him that Matthew Brown strung up Hannibal Lecter on a broken broom stick over a rusty bucket and slit his wrists. Will’s heart pounds at the sight, seeing Matthew standing there as his avenging angel, delivering his vengeance on the devil of his nightmares. He almost regrets not sending Matthew to kill Hannibal in the first place. 

When he asks Beverly what happened to Matthew, since the attempt had obviously failed, she gives him an assessing look and tells him that he was shot and hospitalised prior to incarceration. Will struggles to feel something, anything, and is met with the vast emptiness of apathy. He wonders if this makes him useless to Hannibal now. He had always wanted to toy with his mind, toy with his empathy, see how far down the pits of hell he could traverse before he was too broken to crawl out again. Well, his plan had worked. The thought gave him hope that maybe, just maybe...he could find a way out again. He almost cracks a tiny smile. 

The sudden surge of hope has him wandering outside the grounds, familiarity drawing him to the bench where he had sat with Abigail. The leaves feel too green, the flowers too bright for how Will feels. It is cold, but Will feels nothing other than the familiar tension in his chest dragging him down. He places a hand on the spot where she had sat, ignoring the memory that Hannibal had been standing over them at the time – scheming and plotting, manipulating both of them with his words...and he sighs. His thoughts move at a crawl these days, but already the gears churn, rusty and slow. If he can just get well enough that they release him, he can find a way out again. He can be free... He just needs to fix this cloud of depression that makes him so dead and maybe he could... 

Just be free. 

* * *

Will steps into his home for the first time in months and lets the wood creak behind him. The house feels so distorted now. And yet it makes Will feel intense sadness at the loss of his sanctuary. Now it no longer feels safe, not especially when Hannibal steps in through the door behind him. It feels like a shadow looming behind him wherever he goes. However he tries to shake it, it always is there like Hobbs in his old nightmares. Will lets himself feel the intense loss – of his life and his old sanity – and sighs. Stepping through, he palms at his bed in the living room, stripped of sheets. Everything is in boxes. It reminds him of Hobbs’ home, the last time he was there bleeding out after Jack shot him. It no longer feels safe to him anymore. His life has been violated. Biting back tears, he steps into the hallway and mutters about taking a shower before he shuts the door behind him. Grabbing the closest clothes in the boxes in his room, he steps into the shower and sighs when he catches his reflection in the mirror. 

It has been so long since he has seen himself, he looks...haunted. His eyes are dark, his hair is long and unkempt. His clothes are dishevelled and he looks for lack of a better word, terrible. No wonder Alana had no problem pitying him in his sorry state. He undresses in a daze, and it feels strange to have his skin exposed while Hannibal is in his house. Like he is naked to him, which it well may be. _What does it matter if he is decent when Hannibal kills him later?_ He steps into his shower and wrenches the curtain closed behind him, trying to drown in the gentle spray of water that is so familiar in its rhythm and pressure to him. Everything feels the same but everything is different. He feels miserable enough that he sheds a tear as he is drenched in warm water. 

The sound of a piano tinkles through the spray, and he wonders if he is still crazy with encephalitis. But he recognizes the discordant notes of the untuned keys of his upright piano in the living room. Hannibal must be playing. He feels a spike of discomfort and fear despite how ordinary such an action is. But the feeling of Hannibal in his home, he knows he has been here before – to feed his dogs, and probably many times to plant evidence for his crimes – Hannibal at his piano; it reminds him that the man has utterly decimated his life and he is still here, playing with him. 

Will shudders and breaks down into a quivering ball, sliding down unto the ground, wet and naked and shivering with hysterical fear. He feels like by this point he should be dead. Why is Hannibal not killing him? And yet he is still shaking and crying in his shower, safe and alive. It feels wrong to him. It's all wrong. 

_What's going to happen to him_? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone catch the blowjob reference? Eh? Eh? 🤪🤪🤪
> 
> I quit my job. I feel better. As a result I am fresh out of inspiration. Maybe in a few weeks when i see how fat i have become from the job and having no job and the suffering sets in, I will get some inspiration of pain. I work best when i'm suffering apparently. I have a headache. I dont like this chapter. Fuck it. 
> 
> Kudo and subscribe i guess?


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will settles in unwillingly in the Chez Lecter
> 
> A little peek into Hannibal's head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't like this chapter. I fucked up the paragraphs last time trying to chronologise everything now i'm sad. I have backaches and neckaches. I'm fat and jobless. Pathetic.
> 
> Anyway,Happy NEW YEAR! I hope all's well.
> 
> Dear god let this year be better...

Hannibal finds satisfaction in work well done. As soon as the plan had been imagined, he had set to work. After arranging to have Will transferred to his care courtesy of his new good friend the administrator of Port Haven – whom had been a good investment in the days of Abigail, he begins preparations in proofing his house. He replaces the mirrors and windows with secure unbreakable ones, gathers any and all sharp objects and adds additional security to his knives and his basement. He laments the loss of easy access to his tools of creation, but he knows himself well enough to know that in the event of an intruder, knives will not be his main weapon. He dresses Will’s ‘room’ and makes minor alterations with his aesthetic in mind. He knows even before the incident, Will would not have cared if the room was to his taste, but he does it all the same. It brings him pleasure to make Will as comfortable as possible while in his home. 

Will is quiet all the way from the facility to Wolf Trap. He would have preferred to dress Will himself, but seeing as how the administrator had recommended, he bring some of his ‘old life’ with him to his new home, Hannibal will concede that Will’s comfort supersedes any personal preferences. Will is at a delicate stage currently. His immediate suicidal ideations may be set aside for now, but he is still in a dark place that Hannibal does not like him to be in. Suicide is the enemy. He feels anger and betrayal at Will’s deviation from his plans, but even he cannot fault nor argue with Will’s logic of ‘escape’. He always had been unpredictable if the entire cause of his imprisonment was evidence to. He was seeing the writings on the wall a bit sooner than he was ready and he was too stubborn to be swayed despite roasting in the flames of encephalitis. He was strong even when his mind rebelled against him. it made Hannibal more certain than ever that Will was something unique, something worth saving. Different from the other specimens he had collected. 

But this turn.... 

It made Hannibal consider the possibility he had pushed too hard. He hardly ever was wrong about matters concerning his manipulations. But now, he was faced with someone who he could not predict or control with his usual methods persuasion. He had to proceed carefully, now more than ever. Will was awakened, but weakened. Still, a beat dog will still growl and put up a fight if need be. And Will is nothing if not tenacious and defiant too the end. 

After the awkwardness of Alana and the dogs, Will stalks off and closes himself off. Alana smiles at Hannibal, offering her comfort and seeking some of her own. She is a sweet and beautiful woman who is immensely useful, and he is pleased with Will’s reaction to their relationship. He does not foresee any problems on Alana’s end with regards to attempting to take the relationship beyond a casual sexual one. He admires her even more for that. She tries speaking to him to try ingratiating herself in Will’s therapy, but he gently puts that to rest. Alana nods, easily manipulated, deferring to the superiority and expertise of her mentor, whom she now has a greater appreciation for given the sexual aspect of their relationship. She gives him a kiss on the cheek, which Hannibal accepts with a sweet smile, and she loads Will’s pack into her car and departs. 

Now alone with Will, Hannibal is entertained by the temptation of a malicious course of action, but he also knows that it would not be advisable. The gentle patter of the sounds of the shower drift over to Hannibal, and he takes a seat instinctively at the piano and taps out a few notes. It is horribly out of tune, unmaintained and the cheap quality of the wood frame and copper wires grates at the sound but Hannibal decides to immerse himself with the thought of Will at his harpsichord tapping out timid notes, then gaining in confidence, swaying with the time. He conjures the image of Will smiling at him as he plays and he is filled with longing. There are so many things wrong with that image, least of which is that logistically it is nowhere near realistic to be done and also because Hannibal does not know if Will can actually play or if he even wants to. Hannibal continues with the gentle notes of Bach while Will showers and he waits. 

It takes several more minutes before he realises that Will is taking an inordinate amount of time in the shower – unusual for a man of his lack of personal upkeep and his current mental state. For a second, Hannibal’s mind jumps to the possibility that Will has found a way to harm himself in the shower. Rising from the bench with haste, he makes his way to Will’s room and enters. The sounds of the running water continue, but Hannibal hears no other movement. The smell of soap and water block out any other scent that Hannibal can detect, though running water has a way of washing out the tang of blood very quickly. Knocking on the door swiftly, Hannibal calls out, “Will?” with no answer. 

The water is too loud for Hannibal to hear anything, and when Will continues not to answer, he opens the door anyway. He finds Will sitting curled up under the torrential showerhead, head in his knees. He looks unharmed, and when Hannibal shuts the shower off, and approaches him slowly, he can detect no blood from an open wound, just the bitter taste of fear. An absence seizure perhaps, when Will still is unresponsive to his call and a gentle pat on his arm and he continues to stare half-lidded at the tiles. 

Hannibal shuts the water off and grabs a scratchy towel Will left on the counter. Covering Will with it, he gently picks Will up, letting his wet hair soak into his coat and carries him to his bed. Will laid out on a bed, naked and defenceless is an image that Hannibal can honestly not deny he has thought of before. But the blankness and despair on Will’s face sours and stabs at Hannibal’s still heart. He gently towels Will down and grabs the clothes Will had taken with him and dresses him in the ratty plaid shirt and sweat pants. Will relaxes fractionally after being dried and tucked into bed with his comfortable clothes around him, and Hannibal concedes that Will’s comfort soothes him. Will’s eyes slip shut and he falls asleep instantly. Seeing as how this will probably be Will’s last night in his home, Hannibal allows Will his rest, sitting comfortably in the chair by him, pulling his notebook out of his coat and engaging in the cathartic hobby of trying to turn back Time. 

* * *

Stepping out of his corner of Port Haven feels like stepping out of the cave into the light of day after months of hibernation. The last person he expected to see was the bear of a man Jack Crawford waiting for him. Hannibal quietly excuses himself to go check Will out at the front desk, and chat amiably with the woman who runs the facility, probably who he had to butter up to get access to Will in the first place. Jack slowly approaches Will, but he stares unflinchingly back, refusing to acknowledge the guilt and tenderness of his face that offer apologies. 

“You really think this is a good idea, Jack? 

“Do you?” Jack retorts. Will shakes his head in aggravation. Jack still being stubbornly insistent on the integrity of ‘evidence’, even when the ‘evidence’ had been proven wrong. He can see that Jack is not convinced of the Chilton angle, but he has no choice but to wrap up his white whale under the duress of the righteousness of the FBI’s law. After all, it was he who barked about evidence being sacred in the first place, even knowing how it had led him in circles in the case of Miriam Lass. How much more does the Ripper have to toy with Jack before he sees the real face of the devil? Will is exasperated. He turns away from Jack, even when he puts a gentle hand on his elbow. 

“If you really want me to help, I have to have some kind of bone to bite on. Give me something to pitch them with.” 

“There won’t be, Jack.” Will glares. “I tried telling you...” 

“Let me help you, Will.” 

“Yeah? Like you did before?” Will snarks. Jack winces and lets his arm go, and Will reaches out to clutch where Jack had, like it burns him. Jack’s eyes dart to Will’s bandaged wrists, and looks away. Will refuses to let the guilt affect him and leaves Jack in the dust behind him despite knowing what is ahead. 

* * *

Hannibal bursts through the guest room door to Will’s room. Will’s chest feels so tight, the freezing fear is tightening its hold on him. He cannot breathe. His arms jolt at his sides, trying to keep his chest clear but his lungs are not taking in the breaths he is desperately trying to take. He thrashes as Hannibal dashes to him, climbing on the bed beside him. He takes Will’s arms into his hands to prevent further injury. The touch makes Will’s heart kick into high gear. His eyes are wide open with shock and fear, eyebrows high like a deer in headlights. He sees yet sees through Hannibal at his side, and the sight of the object of his night terrors cause him to cry out. 

“ _NO. No. No!”_

_“_ Will.” Hannibal calmly calls. “You’re having a panic attack. Breathe with me.” 

“No. No!” Will thrashes. Hannibal’s killer grip holds strong, wrangling Will up to his chest and bringing his arms around him to embrace him. Will’s body is a tense wire of solid flesh and he pants through his teeth. He rocks Will gently as he instructs Will to breathe in sync with his own breathing. He breathes in exaggerated movements to allow Will to follow. 

“Breathe, Will. I’m here...” Hannibal whispers in a voice smooth and low like silk. 

Will grips tight unto Hannibal’s sleep shirt, gasping in pained breaths as he is rocked. Slowly but surely, he eases up as he calms. Gradually the fear bleeds out of him as he allows himself to be comforted by the warm body he is tucked into. It smells comforting after days of breathing it in, and the tension in his body is let go with a heavy sigh of Will’s exhale. Hannibal lets out a sigh of his own as he feels Will relaxing into his hold, feeling the weak fingers slowly let go and regrasp weakly at his shirt, catching hairs on his chest as Will grasps unto reality bit by bit. Both their breaths even out and synchronise and they rock gently back and forth. 

Will feels like a child again, and it reminds him of Matthew again, in reverse when he was imprisoned in the BSCHI. He scowls weakly into Hannibal’s chest as he breathes, “You can’t replace him like this.” 

Hannibal hums, and Will cannot tell if he smiles or not. “I know.” 

Will breathes, trying to calm and he feels comforted and warm. The sensation of safety drifts through him and he detaches his mind from his body. It was the same feeling of detached safety that he felt with Matthew and he wonders if this is what it's like to bond with a captor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He’s playing Goldberg Variations 😬😬😬Hannibal imagining will at the harpsichord can be a metaphor for his wish that Will would slowly accept him as a killer and himself slowly becoming one but that dream is far away now and unlikely 
> 
> Also the turning back time thing is a reference to Hannibal's hobby of quantum physics referencing his complicated mathematical equations in Digestivo. THAT GLORIOUS SCENE> sniff sniff.
> 
> Breaks my heart. Fave episode ever.
> 
> You can probably guess what's going to come next...
> 
> I used to have Panic attacks when i was little.NO idea why. My mum had n idea what it was, thought i was hysterical, tried to give me hugs but i would run and grip the floor. the Ground was grounding.
> 
> Only when i got officially diagnosed and i was more exposed t mental health did i realise what it was.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal's frame of mind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't wike it... 
> 
> Might delete this. It feels like something is missing...

When Hannibal had placed Will in prison, it had been with great reluctance and as a last-minute resort. Will was beginning to see the patterns, and he was doggedly determined to seek evidence. It was an outcome Hannibal had foreseen, when he knew that Will was unique and potentially an equal at the same instant, he acknowledged that Will was _dangerous_. To him. No one in all his life had ever come close as Will did, not Miriam Lass with Hannibal’s own carelessness, Pazzi when he was young and green, or Bedelia simply because he gave her a peek behind the curtain and he had decided to test her. All of them had ultimately failed; that they did not understand him, nor did they have the ability to understand and fill out their inner souls themselves. 

If Hannibal should kill in front of them – their first reaction is one of fear. Then repulsion and finally judgement. But if it were Will... His first instinct is to understand – empathise and analyse. Then and only then would he judge – not in any inherent moral compass, no, that would be the excuse he tells himself. It would be out of rejection of his own lack of fear, his understanding, his empathy, with even one removed from others. When a hunter encounters another hunter, he does not fear, because he knows who he is, what he is. He knows he is the hunter and not the prey. But when he detects a threat to his prey, only then will he show aggression, out of instinctual territorial-ness or a protectiveness over the quarry. 

There was something refreshing in the frenzied manner that Will had that Hannibal could toy with, there was a pitying amusement to his sinking unconvincing moral compass imposed on him constantly in the empty paternal figure of Jack Crawford. There was the delight in admiring the beauty of Will Graham. On the one hand, Hannibal had the real possibility of an equal, a partner, a friend. A true friend, a mirror. Not just plain reflection, but someone who could not only understand, but empathize and embrace. On the other, there was a terrifying aspect of being known as he was. Will was unpredictable. While Hannibal may guide him, Will’s reactions were almost entirely unexpected on occasion. It is that ability to surprise and delight him that truly had Hannibal hoping for the former outcome. 

When Will would come to him, he was overjoyed to see the fruits of his labour, the trust Will had in him – that ability to instinctively seek a kindred spirit that would not judge or condemn, but embrace and support. Will had known, but he had not been aware then, that Hannibal was being to him what he hoped Will would be to him. But when Will started to come to him with his eyes slowly opening, a little too quickly, the outcome leaned heavily on the latter. While the seeds for isolation from Jack and Alana had been sown on all sides, the harvest was not ripe to be plucked yet. Too soon. 

Unpredictable. 

Hannibal had to make a choice: his freedom or Will. It had been a simple one. One which Hannibal still held hope for achieving both. Never one to bow down from an undesirable ending, he had forged his own. Never one to also be denied, he had hoped that the broken Will would piece himself together. Stronger. Darker and ready for him. So, he adapted as he always did. And hoped. Hope was a weak excuse of a thing. Hannibal would never forgive himself his naivety for this. 

Will had instead of lashing out with the vain effort of gaining allies, he had isolated himself from everyone, even the one person Hannibal had hoped he would turn to – himself. Instead of embracing his becoming, he had languished and rotted. Worse, there were rats lurking in the dark corners of the prison, just waiting to pick the bones off the dead. Carrion that Hannibal did not foresee, for he had _hoped_ for more. He should have known. 

Why didn’t he? He had not hoped or dreamt of things in decades. Not since the wool had been ripped from his eyes. Not since his mouth was splattered with the blood of both his own innocence and his family’s. Not since.... he had allowed himself the chance for idealistic things. 

To hope for an outcome that lies entirely outside your control, to lay your dreams at the feet of another and entreat them thread softly on your dreams... To cherish. To _love._

Perhaps he had expected too much of Will, perhaps he was not his equal after all. Even when he had rejected Hannibal's company for the company of the buzzing sycophant, Hannibal had not allowed himself to doubt that possibility. While he considered discarding Will for good, perhaps closing the Ripper once and for all on a worthy patsy, he also had laid his secondary plans into motion, Lass, the tree, Chilton and Gideon. 

But when he heard the news from Alana Bloom, her glassy beautiful eyes that shine like the glass of the chapels of his youth, the innocence of the lamb... When she told him that Will had tried to kill himself, Hannibal had a moment to pause, it had seemed to him almost as an out of body experience, to observe his own reactions from the outside. He had never experienced this before. It was novel. He was always clear and present. But when he heard the news, he felt his heart shatter. 

_How could this be? Why? How could he?_

_No. He could not. He should not. No. Impossible._

_No. No. No. No. No._

They had rushed to the prison, where Chilton’s pathetic nurses had triaged Will’s condition so abysmally, that Hannibal had a mind to make his next tableau of them. He had quickly had Will transferred to his alma mater, where he knew people, where he had power. Where he could watch over him. 

Protect... him. 

Hannibal would only later stop to examine his reaction. While Alana Bloom had good naturedly and irritatingly tried to be a comforting presence where he would usually be the one to do so, to manipulate emotions to his advantage, she was the one running a hand on his arm. 

The first was shock. An unexpected turn of events. 

Typically, Will's ability to surprise would amuse or delight him. But this... This was unacceptable. Because it had then alarmed and brought him great grief. Hannibal grieved, like he would a plebeian. He ached at the thought of Will’s misery that the only way out was the last thing any person would do. Suicide. A man’s survival instinct is strongest than any other. Above rational order, above sense and reason. But not above love. Love for family, for lovers... Hannibal had felt that once. A long time ago that Hannibal himself had locked away but had the wisdom to be aware of it occasionally rattling in his mind palace. The fact that Will had felt no other choice... that he would wreak such pain on others at the thought of his passing. He would set aside his own survival for an escape. 

The thought of Will gone from the world alarmed Hannibal. It was empty, it was boring. What pleasures could he seek that would trump Will? What art would be worth bending if no one could see it, not like he did? What life would it be if he could not share his thoughts with the one he had shared with and wanted to share with for the rest of his life? If Hannibal should die, he knew it would not matter – but only that he should expire _before_ he had to suffer the eventuality of Will’s death first. 

The next came the anger, the betrayal of Hannibal’s trust. That Will should thoughtlessly and mindlessly would be so selfish. To beat at Hannibal’s heart uncaringly. How could he? How dare he? He belonged to him. How could Will just leave him behind? 

The conclusions Hannibal made cemented his determination to see _both_ his desired outcomes come through. At the very least, Will should be restored. He was under no illusions that Will would feel what Hannibal does. Nor does he acknowledge that what he feels fits into any songs, poems or works of art that Hannibal has seen. Not close at least. What he knows, is that he needs Will, alive and well. He needs him whole. He does not want his pain, that once had delighted him. He does not want his suffering. He wants him to live and thrive. 

He wants him to be his. He wants him to be strong. He wants...him. 

It broke him when Will had awoken, thrashing, tears in his eyes. Will had screamed at the room till his voice was hoarse, screamed at Hannibal, “NOOO! NO! GET OFF! GET AWAY FROM ME!” thrashing at the arms that restrained him, uncaring of Jack’s commands. Unheeding of Hannibal's calls, if anything more enraged at it. 

For the first time in forever, Hannibal felt another’s grief. Will was distraught he still lived. Will was angry at his survival. 

Will was angry at Him. 

It took some form of revolting bootlicking to get Chilton to allow him access to Will, but he did not regret it. For he saw Will. And he also saw his enemy. An orderly. A lesser hunter. Eagle-eyed, dark haired, young and green. Hannibal might himself had watched his amusing kills from afar, if Will had not caught his eye. If he had not his paws all over Will. If Will did not cling to him, burying his face in that slender neck begging to be slit, to hide from _him_. The man had eyed him, sizing him up. His mask was impressive for one so young. And he was intelligent enough not to challenge him head on, but he would not make the same mistake of ‘hoping’ for a better outcome. He would rip out the enemy, root and stem. 

Hannibal realised that if he could not have Will, he would rather no one have him at all. He would not let anyone else change Will except him. Hannibal could foresee this would force him to recklessness. Will was truly dangerous. If even Bedelia’s warnings should have told him. 

Hannibal began the steps to reclaiming Will. The pieces fell into place organically, one by one. It was quite satisfying to see things going according to plan for once. All the while, as the little pawns fell, he waited patiently. Soon. Soon, Will would be back in his arms. Where he belongs. It would be a long and arduous process, one Hannibal had never taken seriously before, never being invested in the lives of others before now beyond their potential benefits or usefulness. It made Hannibal anxious with the possibilities. An unusual reaction, since anything that could surprise him was a pleasant thing. But not Will. He could not afford mistakes with Will. Not now. Not ever. 

As the final piece slotted into place, Hannibal pondered how he should deal with the sycophant. The young man is enamoured with Will, that is true, but he also holds a degree of interest in the true Chesapeake Ripper. He knows that the boy will see how Hannibal has laid waste to his enemies and know he would be next. He can either hide, or he can run. Or he could approach Hannibal, which would be when he would strike. Hannibal knows this boy may be vicious but he is not stupid. Even so, he knows when it comes to it, he will fall under his might. 

What he does not expect is for the boy to strike first. He nearly falls to his sword had Hannibal not cultivated good allies. Allies with guns. Using a piece, a second time – Jack with Will then with this boy – is not elegant, but it would do. Especially as Hannibal hung, choking on both the rope and Matthew’s words. 

“I’ll be the Ripper now. I’ll take care of him... He doesn’t need you anymore. And he will never be hurt by you again... Ever.” 

“Will is mine now.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haven't found a job... I'm bored at home but im also nt really looking hard enough...
> 
> DEEP SIGH


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have little symbols and foreshadows but for the life of me i forgot what they are. jeeez

Will’s migraines and bouts of nausea return to him, and it does not take much for him to maintain a surly attitude with Hannibal thanks to that. Hannibal keeps a respectful distance and leaves a tray for him in his room at meal times. Not forcing a feeding like that first night he arrived. Which is nice. He does not wonder if the meals are still people, finding that it does not matter so much anymore. What does it matter anyway? Those people would not have thanked him for his reticence. And nobody would thank him for being indignant on their behalf. It tastes good anyway. Of greater concern to Will is the puzzle that is Hannibal Lecter. 

Hannibal tries to talk to him as he did before. The mask of professional concerned doctor is almost convincing if Will could not detect the edge of mild investment in Hannibal. What that investment definitively is, Will does not know. He coaxes him out of his room with activities and books that Hannibal has selected, trying to build a lifestyle and routine for Will to jumpstart his will to live again. Will does so mostly out of boredom and the fact that he is still afraid to see Hannibal truly angered. In his mind’s eye he keeps replaying Miriam Lass and how she innocently wandered into his lair, how she struggled and how she ultimately failed. He wonders if it will take Hannibal two years, or even longer given how aware Will is of him now, to manage the results that Hannibal wants. Like a resistant clay, a halting Iliad that just keeps stepping forward ever so slowly. The ending so far away from view, and yet everyone knows how it will end. It makes Will want to skip forward to the end to see what happens. 

Will wonders if it is better that he is more appropriately armed to face Hannibal now, that he can _see_ him. Or if it was better to be blind and thrashing in the dark. Would it make him more interesting and therefore more enjoyable to play with? If he were boring and banal, perhaps Hannibal would discard him. But try as Will might to be as disengaged as possible, he cannot be dishonest with himself and lie to Hannibal. He is blunt, he is apathetic, and even with poorly concealed disdain and smart comments, Hannibal merely smiles, amused and tolerant like a patient father waiting for his son to grow out of his rebellious phase 20 years late. Will having had no time for being rebellious in his youth, he finds it is quite enjoyable to annoy Hannibal with small things like resisting his kindness, leaving dishes unwashed, wearing the same clothes three days in a row... 

Hannibal has him right where he wants him. Alone, isolated and in the belly of the beast. No one visits, no one would dare call on Hannibal without an invitation, especially now he is hosting a live-in patient. Will has no friends that truly care for him, only people guiltily obligated to care. If he were to ‘wander off’ and ‘disappear’, Hannibal need only say he slept walked out of his house, through his security, and never returned. He is quite literally right where he wants him. He says as much asking Hannibal, “Why haven't you killed me yet?” 

Hannibal blinks owlishly. It would be comical if Will were in a more pleasant mood. So far, any remarks made about Hannibal being what he is – a killer and dangerous sociopath – has been met with deflected comments or denial. Will half expects him to continue that old hat. But for once, Hannibal answers, “The world would be more interesting with you in it... A world without you, would not be such a happy thought.” 

It is Will’s turn to balk and he finds that he cannot parse out the man at all. 

* * *

That first day at Hannibal’s home, Will gets a visit from two of the ghosts of his past, Jack and Alana. At least Hannibal was kind enough to stay outside, instead of hovering by his shoulder like a supervising mother or poking his head in. He wonders if he says ‘no visitors’ does it only apply to non-FBI and non-psychiatrist visitors. Either way, it really pisses him off and depresses him in equal measure. Does no one care if he says something? Anyone? 

“No.” Will shakes his head as he sees Jack and Alana at the door. Before either can protest, he spits: “I did not ask Matthew Brown to kill Hannibal, so don’t ask!” 

“That’s not what I...” Jack says 

“ _Yes, it is_. Don’t lie to me.” Will scowls. 

Jack frowns and shakes his head, looking appropriately scalded. As much as he likes to be courteous, he is naturally suspicious by nature. Alana shoots him a glare as well but Will does not appreciate it. 

“We just wanted to ask if he spoke to you about anything. They found...things in his home. And a lot about...” Alana frowned. 

“Me?” Will supplied with a scowl. “Yeah, I know. Not a huge surprise. And no, we didn’t talk much. And you can ask Chilton for those security feeds that he does not tell anyone about, if Matthew didn’t alter it himself.” Will looked away dismissively, not needing to see their face of discomfort and surprise and returning to his pensive state. But his guests still remained. 

“All that time, and he never told you anything?” Jack pressed, eyes narrowed, voice edging on desperate. 

Will sighed, now starting to drain from conversation he was never used to holding anyway. “No. If you’re looking for more bodies, he never told me. I know that he talked to me but I never paid him much attention until the end. Even if he did, I don’t remember. I wasn’t really conscious for the most part of my ‘stay’.” 

Ever the concerned friend and psychiatrist, Alana jumped at the statement, asking, “Did he...ever...?” 

Will takes a slow blink to understand her words before he smirks and shakes his head. “No... No one touched me inappropriately...” Will barks a sinister laugh. “But then again, I wouldn’t remember even if he did. I only remember he bathed me every day. He basically did everything for me from what I could tell... But I don’t remember a thing. I just let him do whatever he wanted.” 

Alana and Jack’s face reach the appropriate levels of disgust and concern, and finally to the satisfying torments of guilt, and this time Will turns away in a clear dismissal. 

Hannibal on the other hand, reaffirms his decision to keep out of sight, listening beyond the crack, knowing that his presence would only make Will hold back his thoughts. And a good thing too, because it would not do to reveal to Will and his guests the pure possessive rage that grips his chest and darkens his eyes he feels on hearing what Matthew had done to Will. His mind wrestling with the rage of the images of that rat’s hands on Will, touching him as if he were his... If Will himself were privy to his thoughts, he would point out rather sneeringly how hypocritical it is, when Hannibal himself had caused Will just as much, if not more, cruel and invasive pain. 

* * *

Will blinks slowly awake, eyes prying open. He is comfortable and warm. He is home. There are no sheets but his blanket is tucked around him. The sun is winking away and it is kissing the tips of the trees on Will’s horizon. For a moment, he is calm, he is at peace in that waking moment before reality sets in. He could almost believe it is just another day. He is about to go fishing. His dogs will come pawing at him to be let out to pee... The door clicks open and because he is still groggy, he does not panic when Hannibal walks in and takes a seat by him. And because he is still half-asleep, he is calm when he looks at him. 

“How are you feeling?” Hannibal asks. It is only then, does Will realise he is dressed and in bed, when his last memory was getting into the shower. He feels unease creep up his cheeks and he ducks his head. 

“M’fine.” 

There is a beat of silence where both Hannibal and Will’s breaths mingle in the shared space. The house is deadly quiet, the echoing emptiness where there used to be shuffles of doggy breaths and pants, the click of sharp nails of wooden boards. The silent whir of the power in the lighting. The calm pops and breaks of the tree branches outside of Will’s window. Now, there is only the silence between two men. It is as if Will’s forced absence has pried out the life from the house. Now it is an empty sentinel of a life ripped out of the past. Will lets the silence surround them, unwilling to break it lest blood be spilt. He settles in the belly of the beast and it is silent and still there. There are no growling monsters, no deathly pale spectres of dead Hobbs or any other of Will’s ghosts. There is only Hannibal. And that honestly is more frightening in the stillness of a lethal predator than the clamour and clattering of the ghosts of Will’s mind. For he is all alone now. Alone with the beast. But Will feels no deathly panic seize his chest like he did when Hannibal approached him in the BSCHI, there is only the stillness and the deep breath before the plunge. 

“Would you like to discuss your situation moving forward?” Hannibal broaches quietly. His voice is a rustle of velvet in the smooth vaporous air. 

Will stares back at Hannibal, meeting his neutral expression with the dead repose of one calm and frozen in place. _No_ , he wants to say. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want to talk about any plans you have. I don’t want anything to do with you.” 

“Will, in order for the therapy to move forward, we have to--” 

“We don’t have to do anything.” Will snaps quietly. His eyes are unseeing as he stares. Hannibal’s face is as still as his own. “Don’t speak as if any of this is what you really want. Don't lie to me. Don’t sit there and pretend you don’t know that I don’t know who and what you are. You may have to pretend for everyone else, but I don’t.” 

Hannibal flickers slightly to life. “No, you don’t.” 

“I asked you once. I _begged_ you not to lie to me. And you lied anyway to my face. Repeatedly.” Will’s lips turn down into the gentlest of scowls, even as Hannibal’s face is a mask. “ _I trusted you. I put my faith in you_. You betrayed everything for the sake of seeing what would happen. Well. Now you have. You may feel welcome to pick at the pieces left. But I will not be giving you what you what. Do you understand? I will never let you have the pleasure of breaking me again… Only I do.” 

_It was your betrayal that hurt him_ _the_ _most, you know..._ Matthew had said. _You killed him and didn’t even know it... Now, he’ll never be yours._

Hannibal’s face wanted to crumple in on itself from the pressure. He felt the pin pricks of tears that he had not felt in years. He had kept the ability to cry on hand close to him for the usefulness vulnerability gave him in certain social contexts, but now it was not a deliberate thing, he felt his face sour. But he willed himself not to break control. He simply nodded and stood. 

“I will wait for you outside. We will leave in half an hour.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if it was apparent but I tried to do the Digestivo break up convo vibes conversation that hanni and will has where Will was full break up and hanni was full heartbreak but even if it’s not just take it as it is I guess


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will's new prison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I held out as long as i could. I wrote a lot of stuff beforehand. I feel kinda good about this chapter but i'm feeling nauseous as i'm posting this so i'm uneasy even though yesterday i felt great about it lol

Hannibal had stood quietly as the monitors beeped and reported Will’s condition entirely too cheerily. Jack stood by his side. Both men were gazing unhappily at the sedated man, feet cuffed and wrists bound in gauze and bandage. One felt guilt, the other…pain. 

Hannibal could see how uncomfortable Will must feel in his bed. He has not been very conscious for the past few days and the attending had updated Hannibal on his condition even through patient confidentiality. Not that it would be much of a violation since Will was a ‘convicted murderer’ and Jack was more than happy to use Hannibal’s medical expertise. They are both silent as the monitor counts out Will’s life with every beat. His face is drawn and there are dark bruises under his eyes. New splashes of blood are dotted around his face from when he had tried to scratch at himself in an attempt to complete his death. Hannibal's hand itches to get a swab to wipe his face clean but he controls himself. His mouth is slack from drug induced sleep and his skin is pale. He looks almost dead were it not for the machines telling him otherwise.

Jack lets out a long sigh that searches Hannibal’s control. Jack’s guilt somehow is not enough to excuse the annoyance he has brought to Hannibal. Perhaps it is because Jack feels guilty because of Hannibal's deceptions in making it so that causes Hannibal such great irritation. But he would simply argue that Jack’s feelings are inconsequential in the end to Hannibal’s own at the moment. 

“An orderly found him in the morning when he came to give him breakfast...” Jack starts. The image clears in Hannibal’s mind. “He was bleeding out for a good few hours...would have been too late either way if he had done it any sooner...”  _ Thank god he was not in the right mind to plan it out _ , Jack seems to say. 

Hannibal steps forward, having felt like Jack has said enough. He sits by Will in the hard-uncomfortable chair and places his hands by Will’s. He wants to reach out and hold his hand in his own, but he knows it would not be welcome or right, even in sleep. Especially not with Jack Crawford watching. 

“Alana has been trying to get this into Will’s defence. She was...holding up pretty well....” Jack breaks off. “She had some choice words to say... Not that I blame her.”

“And you would do well to heed them.” Hannibal jumps at it. Jack looks back in surprise, expecting settling words not dissenting ones. “It is perhaps best if you ceased your assault on Will’s health.”

“Doctor, I’m not the prosecution. I have no say over any of this. None of this could have been foreseen...” Jack defends himself.

“Be that as it may, Will would doubtless not want to see you for the remainder of his convalescence. Or in fact, his incarceration...” Hannibal knows that shifting the blame and guilt further into the wound as a shiv would be dangerous for him, but he knows that Jack Crawford is more detrimental to Will than a help. Jack’s forehead creases in permanent stress but Hannibal could not care any less than what lays before him now. 

* * *

Hannibal steps through the threshold of his home, holding the mail in one hand, and his satchel in the other. It is quiet in the house. it always is quiet in the house. Silent as the grave. It was quiet and peaceful before Will came to live with him, and it seems even more so now, simply for that fact that it should not be. Will seems determined to make his existence as small and unassuming as possible. Almost as if he is just a fixture in the house, part of the décor, a painting to be appreciated when it suits Hannibal as he passes the halls. When he had first arrived, Will had almost never left his room, ‘the guest room’ Will always referred to it – like he was a visitor, a temporary guest. But with weeks of gentle coaxing and convincing, Hannibal had finally encouraged Will to make use of his home’s hospitality. Now, when he came home to Will, he would find him sometimes sitting in the library reading one of Hannibal's books, his eyes full of an opinion or thought on the contents or the significance of the book in Hannibal's possession . But he would never share these thoughts with Hannibal, much as he would like to share a diverting discussion with him – as they had done  _ before _ . 

Or he would find him like today, sitting quietly in the sitting room, a cup of hot chocolate at his side as he stared out the window admiring the empty peace of Hannibal’s neighbourhood. Hannibal had told him to tuck himself into his alcohol cabinet, but after the first tentative time Will had humoured him with a half finger of whiskey from the cart, he had never indulged in drink again. Almost as if he was trying not to make himself a nuisance, like a polite guest not to overindulge in their host’s kind offer. While Hannibal was happy that Will’s old habit of alcoholism is seemingly curbed, it still upsets him slightly that Will has changed himself and been changed enough that he is almost  unrecognisable . He is staunching natural behaviours; he is moulding himself in a way he thinks he should behave. Where a smart comment from Hannibal in the past might have drawn shy laughter from him before, now he only smiles and nods. Where Will was never one to sit still and ponder his mind palace the way Hannibal would, tinkering at something, rustling about with his pack, now he only sits and is as a ghost. He never initiates conversation unless he has to, and he never speaks his true mind. He is a shell of his former self and it honestly hurts Hannibal to watch him. 

Hannibal scans the mail systematically and dismissively, bills, invitations and letters from his attorney. He sees he has received several entreating and even scolding notes from his acquaintances in the social circle of Baltimore elites, informing him or prodding him to host a party, or attend a new opera being played. Hannibal has not had the time or inclination to indulge in the niceties of society since Will has come into his life, especially less so when Will was closing in in his fevered haze, and definitely not when Will was imprisoned and the disheartening events of after. He knows he is sorely missed, the buzzards and simpering fellows of the rich wanting a lick of his attention for the benefits it would bring, or simply to bask in his presence. It is a persona he has perfected and maintained over the years to good use and as a good camouflage but it can be put aside for the greater concern to Hannibal at the moment. He has been far too preoccupied of late with Will to engage in trivialities. His presence might be missed, but the years of making himself known would not be eroded for several months of absence. His now more engaging workload of a live-in patient can be a good excuse for him to be busy after all. And it also has the added benefit of avoiding Franklyn Froideveaux. Though not his disappointed pouting after in their sessions of missed opportunities in stalking.

Hannibal unburdens himself of his outerwear and all other distractions and wanders in to greet Will, who barely glances up more than a millisecond to his face, nods and turns away. It is not rude, Hannibal would say, he had taken the effort to acknowledge him, but it still pains him. Will had only taken the time to gauge Hannibal’s mood before dismissing his presence. Hannibal sits in an adjacent chair to watch Will be lost in his head. He wonders what he sees in there now. If his mind has been utterly changed. Are there improvements, or has it been severely damaged. The mind fever may be gone, but something more insidious has taken root – for it is unseen and no amount of medical prodding may eradicate it entirely. Depression is something that almost never is able to be fully treated. And for someone like Will, who already is more difficult as patients go, it would be near impossible. It already has altered his brain physically to the point where his natural behaviours are so stilted. Hannibal worries if he takes too long, whether Will may be permanently damaged. 

Perhaps that is his intention. He has made it clear he wants nothing more than death as an escape from Hannibal. That is something Hannibal cannot allow. But Will had never been something he  could entirely predict or control. Which leads Hannibal to his current predicament. How to help someone who sees you as an enemy?

“Don't you have better things to do than stare at me?” Will asked, voice low and rough. 

Hannibal’s ears would perk up in excitement were he a hound, but as he is not, he simply smiles politely and contains his trepidation. “I have no more appointments for the rest of the day.”

Will hums. “Didn't you used to have patients till 6?”

“I did. But I have reduced my practice.”

Will’s eyebrow twitches, and Hannibal sees his thoughts turning. He knows he has surmised that Hannibal has cut down on his workload to make time for him, but still is confused as to why. He aches to let his heart out, but he knows the time is not right. It may never be.

“I guess you can afford it...” Will says not too bitterly, eyeing the décor around him. Hannibal nods and smiles. “Shouldn’t you be with Alana, though?”

Hannibal’s head tilts, reminding Will of a curious dog. The imagery gives him a little amusement. “Why should I?”

“I may be an antisocial hermit, but even I know it takes more than just sex to maintain a relationship...” Will teases, the tiniest hint of a curve at his lip. It pleases Hannibal more than Will can know but he humours him all the same. “And I know you’re the kind of person not to sleep over at a lover’s place...”

“Would you like a visit from Alana, Will?” 

Will rolls his eyes subtly. “It's not me that’s fucking her.” The course language somehow conveying his annoyance and the crudeness of Hannibal’s own actions in regards to her. Hannibal wants to prod at Will’s apparent jealousy, but as he himself is uncertain if Will is jealous of her or him, he chooses to forfeit this particular battle. 

“As it happens, I’ve invited Alana over for a visit with your pack. I’m sure you must miss them.”

Will frowns at that. “You don’t like dogs. They're messy and smelly. You shouldn’t bring them here.”

“It's thoughtful of you to think of my comfort, Will. But this is about you, not me.” Hannibal smiles, knowing that is not the point. And Will scowls in response. 

When Will descends for brunch the next day, he is not surprised then to find Alana with Winston in tow. His rare and fiercely guarded smile is released from its isolation, and he kneels in benediction for his little furry friend. Alana and Hannibal allow him a moment to greet and play with his former pet. Alana smiles down at him while Hannibal observes and catalogues every dip and curve of Will’s face. He glances at Alana to nudge her and she turns to Will.

“Will.” the man’s face clamps shut at being addressed, but Alana keeps her smile on bravely. “Hannibal and I were thinking that perhaps you would like to keep Winston with you here for company. He sure has missed you, and you would love to have him again, right?”

Will’s hand stills and he is tempted to scowl at being addressed like a child and also at the intent. What could possibly benefit Hannibal from having a dog in the house? It’s not like it would magically make him talk to him again.  Will schools his face to blankness. The mask he learnt from Hannibal. 

“I do. But I can’t take care of them anymore. It’s better if you find them foster homes ,  Alana.” 

“No, Will. I’ll take care of them...” Alana smiles. The feature seems permanently scored into her face.  _ Until you get better _ , it seems to imply. But the  question is when? “Hannibal and I feel that it would help to have some company while Hannibal works and it would help you get some independence back…” 

Will  falls silent as if to ponder. He knows it would be a comfort, and it might also bring some amusement to annoy Hannibal with dog hair… but he honestly doubts it would make him happier. The cloud of death over his head still hovers and seems to sneer at him over the crown of his skull. He nods and walks away, Winston following him without prompting. 

Alana sighs and looks to Hannibal in sadness and Hannibal echoes it in spirit but shows nothing but a brave face for the world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything is 'Hannibal and I' huh Alana?
> 
> Altering natural behaviours is different from person to person I think  
> And it has been said depression changes you physically  
> Hannibal would be worried if it damaged his brain to much 
> 
> I really need t look more vigorously for job... But i stress out at even the prospect, and i couldn't even appreciate how cushy my last internship was i really am pampered and spoiled. I don't know how much of it is because i'm young and depressed or that i'm really sick in the head. 
> 
> KUDO SUB AND BOOKMARK :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stand by when i say the Lunar New Year is the worst time of year for me. Having to get 'new' clothes and then visiting relatives who all think its cute to point out how much weight you've gained and suggesting diets like its never occurred to me before? What business is it of theirs what my body looks like?
> 
> sigh
> 
> Anyway.
> 
> I’m quite impressed with myself I never thought I’d to 10 chapters  
> I didn’t even foresee this being so long  
> I’m hoping I can keep it up and not disappoint everyone

The house seems livelier with the addition of the animal. Hannibal is pleased with the minimal effort required for the dog to maintain his house. Will’s pet is well trained and well behaved. Though it does shed and leaves hair in the oddest of places. He is not allowed in the kitchen, and it does not take much to train him not to enter. The dog sits by Will’s side when he reads, and warms his feet when he passes out by the fire. It is a loyal beast. Memories of Mischa float to his mind, of her asking for a pet, but the request had never been fulfilled before she was taken. Then and now, Hannibal reaffirms the idea that the beasts are good companions, though they are inconvenient at the best of times. The _inconvenience of love_ is something that Hannibal is becoming increasingly aware of late. 

The house is still quiet for the most part. Will does not speak except to address the mutt. Hannibal would occasionally hear Will utter quiet words of ‘no, down boy’, ‘wanna treat?’ and ‘good boy’ from time to time. Hannibal is forced to consider the absurdity of wanting to make dog fur rugs. 

Will’s mood visibly improves. He had always been more concerned with the welfare of others than himself. Especially so now. He would ask to walk Winston, and Hannibal would take the time after he returned to work to accompany Will on these strolls, to a discerning look from Will. He would take the food from his plate and offer it to the dog. So, Hannibal would point out to Will that unless he wanted him to double the portions so that Will would actually consume something, he would kindly provide him with his dog recipes and Hannibal would make it instead of starving himself. 

But despite this small improvement, Will still is filled with a melancholy that Hannibal cannot reach. Naturally, a dog does not magically fix all problems. Hannibal knows. But it is a step closer to forgiveness. 

Hannibal has tried almost every therapy convention written – apart from the unethical and intrusive ones. Short of telling Will his feelings – and he doubts it would have much to sway him either way – Hannibal is at the end of his leash. He even gave him his dog back. One was the limit to which Hannibal would tolerate in his immaculate home. But even as time passes, Will heals. And that is all Hannibal can hope for. Daily, as Will lives, he grows stronger, and so does his survival instinct. Every day, Will grows less pale and drawn, every time Hannibal interacts with him, he draws less into himself. It gives him the sickly tendrils of hope. 

Now with the addition of Will’s pet, Hannibal has incorporated afternoon walks into their routine. Will was naturally suspicious, and kept his distance from him even when walking alongside him on sidewalks. Will’s buffer of physical intimacy does not bother Hannibal so much as the mental one. He yearns for Will’s thoughts. But he knows he has to earn the right to it back again. And Will’s trust was never easily won to begin with it. But Hannibal is nothing if not patient. The only thing that could test it is Will, and he is eager to coax him out of his shell again. To see him smile at him over the table. 

The daily walks are a welcome reprieve from the stony house. Will has to admit that the fresh air does him good. As the seasons turn colder ever so slowly. Will is glad for the layers, even if it is just cloth, he prefers to shield himself from Hannibal in any way. Naturally, though Will was ‘allowed’ to wear the clothes he brought, Hannibal still finds ways to dress him. Whether it is by subtler means of leaving coats or shirts that Will has that are ratty and filled with holes, replaced by Hannibal’s more expensive tasteful options by way of leaving them on his bed or in his closet. Or by Hannibal commenting one too many times and giving it to him outright. The new coat is understated by Hannibal’s standards. And Will would begrudgingly accept despite the smug little smile Hannibal would make. Will would always make it a point after every gift, not to allow Hannibal to change him. He may want to mould him physically in appearance to his taste, but he will never allow him into his mind again. 

As they walk by a park, that Hannibal leads them to, Hannibal gains some stragglers. Will sees for the first time how Hannibal cultivates his person suit. The acquaintances he maintains. He greets his neighbours genially, and every once in a while, he inquiries about some personal matter politely, and it somehow pleases them greatly that he asked about it. Small talk. Will shivers. It's almost as frightening as crime scenes. It also does not escape his notice that nobody mentions or addresses his existence. Will lets Winston off his leash into the dog friendly park, and he takes off eagerly after some pedigree pets with their shiny maintained coats to make friends. He watches as it is the owners rather than the dogs themselves who shy away from the obvious mutt who looks like it was a stray; which Winston was. The pets have no such qualms and greet each other happily. Will sighs with relief and a little bit of envy at the simplicity of doggy interactions and social structures. Hannibal watches, amused and smiles at Will, to which Will ignores, straightening his expression. Several passers-by approach Hannibal, to which he seems to know them all and greets them by name, and Will takes this as an opportunity to wander off, keeping Winston in his sight, even as Hannibal keeps Will in his. 

The inane chatter disappears as he walks slowly to a bench and settles in it. He takes a deep breath, and sighs through his mouth. It really was a nice neighbourhood. The park was small but large enough for a leisurely stroll or jog. Will could see himself coming here were he of Hannibal’s social strata, or even if he were a different man. The flowers are small and pretty, not too jarring in colours, compared to the blooms that adorn Hannibal’s centrepieces or ties. The trees sway in a gentle dance as the breeze tickles through them and brush by Will’s hair. There is no loud chatter Will is used to in public spaces, like there is an unspoken rich people rule to maintain peace and quiet. Will quite liked it. Will could see why Hannibal picked it. Even if to Will the dog-friendly park would have been Will’s main motivation for calling it that and not Hannibal’s, he still knows that Hannibal made a good choice. He watches Winston frolic with the other canines, who cannot be forcefully contained by their masters from their excitement at play. He lets a tiny smile come out to play and sighs again. 

“Quite a beautiful day.” a voice says. 

Will turns his head and finds a tall dark man, with empty eyes. Immediately he pings him and though it should shift him with unease, he has seen the worse and more chilling brands of all killers, meeting this man hardly frightens him. What gives him caution is why he is seeking him out. 

_Probably another of Hannibal’s admirers_. 

“Yes. Hannibal’s domain...” Will sighs sarcastically as they both turn to watch Hannibal holding court over his neighbours. Even from this distance, Will can see that Hannibal is only humouring them and their prattling chatter. He knows Hannibal is watching him from the corner of his eyes. And he also feels the stranger watching him in a similar fashion. Like predators with their prey. Will shakes his head. Will senses an interest in the man on Hannibal and also in him. These people always seek out their own. It is hard being a lone hunter in a world where you are hunted. Will empathises. But it does not mean he condones it, especially if he is caught in the middle of it. 

“He plays the crowd like a well-oiled instrument...” he comments. “He certainly is a skilled musician.” 

Will hums. Will reads the man’s mind examining Hannibal like a king over the masses, the loneliness and yearning to join it, but also the sharp intelligence behind him. He was not bowed by his solitude, but he was looking forward to partnership. This man was fascinating. If Will were Hannibal, he might be inclined to play with him. This man had killed before and would kill again. Will just hoped it would not come to his door. 

“If you’re looking to be friends with him, I wouldn’t try.” Will offers in a friendly tone. The man turns to him now with focus. Perhaps surprised by Will’s astute statement. “Hannibal can be...’picky’ with his friends.” 

“As his friend, you would know this?” he inquires, his head tilts at the end, and it strikes Will like a lizard. The man stares at him now with a dark gleam but Will ignores it. Uncaring and rash. 

Will laughs. “No, I'm more of a pet than friend...” He smiles in Hannibal’s direction. 

“How does one befriend him?” the man asks in a dark low tone. Will examines the question as both referring to general advice and also an interest into himself particularly. 

Will shrugs. “Play hard to get, I suppose. He is not one for friends. He is utterly assured and ruthless and entirely in control. He does not need validation or comfort. And he doesn’t need followers, though he draws them like flies to honey.” Will laughs to himself, shoulders ruffling in amusement at his own metaphor. He turns back to the man and is surprised now to find how dark his stare is. It reminds him of Matthew somewhat, and he shivers slightly. “He doesn’t like to share. Even if you play the right instrument, it takes more than just skill and ingenuity to get his attention.” 

“You seem to know him very well...” The man smiles. Will gives a sardonic smile in return. 

“I don’t have a choice. Too interesting for my own good.” Will says. He smiles at the stranger, feeling bold and confident. Uncaring of the circumstance and consequences. What more could he lose? “So, if you really want to keep playing, I would suggest what I always do; stay away from him.” Will nods. But the stranger only gazes at him evenly, assessing. The gaze is entirely too calculating for it to be simply a look and Will’s neck prickles with tension. He frowns. 

“But... You didn’t come for Hannibal, did you...?” Will’s eyes narrow. He shifts slightly straighter, though the man is now perched carefully at the edge of the bench. While he knows he will not attempt anything in broad daylight in full view of witnesses, Will’s self-defence instinct kicks in. Not entirely, if his continued presence on the bench is any indication. But it never hurt to be cautious. It is then Will can see his focus shifting and the gears turning in his head. He is thankful he cannot reach too deeply with his stunted empathy at the moment, but now he does not want to know what this man is thinking. 

The stranger smiles and nods at Will in a facsimile of a kind mentor. “No, indeed...” he murmurs. “I came to see what had drawn his attention so entirely that he has withdrawn himself beyond anyone's reach. It seems my intuition was correct...” he trails off suggestively, gazing at the way Will is sitting the edge of his seat with slight amusement. The spotlight oscillates and seems to shift from Hannibal to Will. 

“Like I said,” Will stared back frostily. “He's not interested.” Will keeps his face a mask of unconcerned cynicism, but he secretly hopes that this stranger does not meddle with Hannibal, for his own good. And that he is entirely fed up with killers trying to get into his head. 

“And what about you? Do you want a friend?” The man asks, undeterred. 

Will continues frowning, his eyes narrowing at the stranger, who simply smiles that creepy plastered smile that is so obviously fake at him. “No. I don’t want anything or anyone...” 

Hannibal's head cocks up, as the crowd begins to disperse. Will tilts his chin at the stranger. “You’d better be on your way... He can get prickly about people around his toys...” Will nods. “If you want to play with him, you will have to pay...” 

“As you say,” the stranger bows and turns away. “Mr Graham…” Will tries not to feel the shiver that runs down his spine at the man addressing his name when he had never given it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all the unreliable narrators of our own lives.
> 
> Our new friend is here because like I had mentioned Hannibal has had his hands full with Will so he hadn’t the time to attend opera and stalkers
> 
> WAAAAAA This is the first time i've done a chapter without a page break since maybe the first HA HA


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A serenade...for who?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I particularly dislike this chapter
> 
> It is different from the others so it is uncomfortable for me. I hope its not to uncomfortable for you.
> 
> [Cindy says](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwasamazing/pseuds/thatwasamazing) that this is fine and i trust her. she's good writer too go see her thingies. she has lots of penis descriptions i wish i were capable of. but i have a complicated relationship with them

Hannibal scans the news and Lounds’ rag. He had been taking note of an amusing player in the Baltimore area. Someone affluent, educated, musically talented and clearly musically technical. He has turned an appalling trombonist into an instrument and ordinarily, had the stakes not been so high for him, he would even come and play. This man is clearly making a statement, a statement that Hannibal echoes – a horrible waste of talent has been elevated into a better instrument. It is quite marvellous. However, Hannibal has something far more frightening to lose and unfortunately cannot attend his performance. Were he a more social man at the present time, he might have run across this new man. He connects with the thread of Franklyn mentioning a new friend; someone whom he admires and wishes to emulate but cannot seem to shake his own awkwardly lacking social skills. A skill in musical instruments, a string shop. And seemingly disturbingly, if Franklyn’s sheep brain is warning him enough, mentions human instruments. He makes a note to mine for more information in as clinical a way as possible so as to allay Franklyn’s misplaced interest in friendship with him. Hannibal is not going to engage this killer, if Jack’s phone calls are any indication of their struggle to even profile him is any indication as to how incompetent everyone is compared to him and Will. But he will keep an eye out. 

“Do you desire Tobias sexually?” the question sparks off and array of embarrassment and glancing thoughts which Hannibal can see Franklyn trying to deny. Whether the question has planted the seed or the bud has already been planted, Hannibal can tell it is a new area of interest for Franklyn. He carefully tends to the probing questions of Tobias, gathering his name, his business and the address as well as Franklyn’s insight as to the psychopathy of his friend. He leads him on the direction of caution, though he would be greatly pleased if this Tobias killed him. It would be doing him a favour in a way. Franklyn leaves, shaken and trembling. And Hannibal allows himself a moment of delight at his fear. 

* * *

Will enjoys the walks. He jokes when they step away from chatty neighbours that Will is like Hannibal’s dog, taken for a stroll. Hannibal smiles back at him, grateful for the attempt at humour, pleased with the already telling results of socialising Will and getting him accustomed to his presence and his home. Of course, as soon as he does, Will shuts down as if to remind himself of the lion in the room. Will is also thriving in part due to the happiness of his furry companion. The gentlest of canine gentlemen, Winston rarely barks and has never attempted to lay paws on Hannibal, for which he is most grateful. Mixing spearmint in Winston’s food has improved his oral hygiene. And Hannibal can forgive him when he does lick at his hands after Hannibal indulges him in a rare ‘human’ treat. He bounds ahead unleashed, and Hannibal is again impressed by Will’s affinity for dogs. Despite being in a populated environment, Winston is calm, intelligent and never strays far from Will. And the lack of complaints Hannibal has received about his new companion’s pet is a good sign. Thus, if Winston is happy, Will is happy. And this appeases Hannibal greatly. 

Their daily walks seem to be the highlight of Will’s day. And if Hannibal can be by his side when it is, though he is not the reason he enjoys the time, he would gladly indulge him anything. It also has the added benefit again, of habituating Will to domesticity with him. And if in the long run, that benefits Hannibal, he is not objecting to the time he has to ward of shallow chatty neighbours. It is annoying and tempts Hannibal’s control. His neighbours steal his time to stroll and even coax Will to talk. And it is also precisely why he does not walk in his neighbourhood very often as it goads Hannibal into adding names to his rolodex to which he cannot do. Will gets a particular mean streak when he steers them towards the brainless people and it seems to amuse him that Hannibal is irritated. Though Hannibal may be accused of being cold-blooded and heartless, he knows he only empathises with Will. And seeing him happy...well it is worth the rudeness. 

As they near the park, they notice a veritably large crowd gathered at its entrance. Will’s grin widens wickedly, and Hannibal sighs with put upon grace and good-natured tiredness but smiles at Will’s glee. But even as they approach the attention is not on them. The crowd parts slowly, nattering chatter and concerned faces. And then they see it. Hannibal instantly turns to Will, wanting to shield him from the body displayed, but he shrugs out of his hold. He walks forward almost hypnotised, and Hannibal sees the pendulum swinging behind his eyes. The glazed look that he has come to admire has returned, he is an enthralled audience that drinks in the display, parked on the bench where Will had sat. 

The world hollows of sound, the pressure in Will’s ears drop. He feels weak. He feels shaky. But he has to see. 

See... 

A man with curly brown hair, head bowed forwards uncomfortably. His chest is open but cleanly finished, into the body of a guitar, and his arms are tucked around it as if he is prepared to pluck a tune. Will can almost hear it, the music behind his eyes. It reminds him of his old guitar by the Bayou, summer nights by the water in the boggy sand, playing by a campfire and serenading the trees. He shivers, suddenly alone despite the crowd, despite Hannibal’s eyes on him and a hand on his arm. 

It’s a gift. A gift for _him_. A token from his childhood. To say, ‘I do not play your instrument, but I see you and I can help you play.’ There can only be one person this gift is from, and he does not even have a name to put into those dark eyes. He jerks around in Hannibal’s arms, as if feeling the eyes on him, watching his reaction. It disgusts him how excited he is, and he can feel Hannibal dark and broiling by his side. Everything is closing around him, he shakes and shivers. His chest feels tighter and he curls into Hannibal’s, quietly moaning and whimpering. He is afraid of how good it feels, to arrange this display, the feelings behind this display, and feeling how good it feels to receive it... 

He mindlessly follows Hannibal’s lead as he is tucked and led back the way they came, and he finds solace in Hannibal’s strength holding him together. The madness of it all is laughable, but Will has no humour left to laugh. One psychopath imprisons him, the other serenades him. What has the world come to? 

* * *

Hannibal was aware there was a limit to feeling protective, that this was bordering on possessive. But even he would argue after being strung up like a stuck pig, he did not want anything to get to Will. That day he allowed Will to sit too long outside his presence, he knew that his generosity had come at a price. He knew he should allow Will his space, it was good, healthy even for him to interact and have social interactions. It just was difficult filtering exactly who he interacted with. Hannibal felt like a teen father watching his budding daughter be accosted repeatedly by suitors, because his daughter was young and beautiful and had the loveliest scent that allured the most dangerous killers. Hannibal could not get a good enough look to observe the dark man who had chatted Will, even made him smile – which Hannibal did not appreciate; only he should make Will smile – but he knew he was dangerous. And after he had displayed his gift so strategically on their afternoon stroll, on the very spot he had spoken to Will, he was certain. He was thankful Will had grown teeth of his own; was as wild and prickly as a young buck, and he had not needed to be so overprotective. But he did not like the way the man had looked at Will, or the way he had glanced between them both, as if reading the threads of their tumultuous relationship. 

So, it came as no surprise that Will did not appreciate it at all. “It’s not enough I'm your prisoner but now you’re confining me to the house? You hypocritical bastard! _You_ are the one he wanted! You dragged me into your world and now, you’re gonna keep me locked away like some kind of china teacup?! You asshole!” 

Hannibal calls Jack Crawford, and points him in the direction of the Chordophone String shop. No more walks, Will is not to leave, and Hannibal does not mention Jack who agrees with his protective measures – despite how reasonable it is – Will is angry enough for two. He storms off after shouting his displeasure, which Hannibal takes rightfully and gracefully, ticking Will off further. 

Hannibal's jealousy blindsided him, when he saw how Will approached the gift the stranger had left for him. He needed to get rid of this new player as soon as possible. He knew this would only be the overture in the plans he had for Will. And he would not take thievery lightly. He would prefer to take care of this himself, but he would not risk leaving Will alone too long. So, he made use of his proxy tool, hoping that the FBI is at least competent enough to handle him. But he knows he is hoping for too much. 

* * *

“He was...dangerous is all I can say. Definitely not his first kill.” 

“So, he is the guy responsible for the cellist?” Jack frowns. “What else, Will?” 

“I don’t know what else I can tell you, Jack. We spoke for 5 minutes about friendship and that’s it.” Will flaps a tired hand which flops down on his lap. He sags on the sofa in Hannibal’s sitting room and cringes at the present company questioning him. He at least is grateful he is not being ‘interrogated’. But the players and the setting resemble it enough that Will cringes a little on the inside. 

“So, he _is_ trying to serenade you then, like Dr Lecter said?” Jack pressed. “At least Lounds was correct then... she may have pointed him in your direction with the stuff she put up about you after your release--” 

“Ugh.” Will cringed, scowling fiercely and everyone in the room, Hannibal, Jack and Alana looked at him with sympathy. “I don’t even want to know what she’s been writing... it's hard enough inside my own head...” Will shuts his eyes and wipes his face with his hand. 

“Don’t worry about her, Will.” Alana says soothingly, trying her best to place her hand at Will’s shoulder, only to be subtly rebuffed with a repositioning. “Jack will handle her.” She says with a pointed look at the mentioned party who receives it with a sigh. 

“Tobias Budge told Will he wanted to ‘play’ with him. What that means to him is out of our realm of assumption, but we do know that it is nothing good. I would suggest that you spare someone to protect Will at all times, Jack.” Hannibal commands softly. Jack nods his head as if without a thought and Will grimaces at the thought of Jack at Hannibal’s beck and call. 

“It does give us an opportunity to catch him if he comes looking for him--” 

“No, I am not bait. Fuck no.” Will spits. 

“I never said that--” 

“You were thinking it.” Will retorts. Jack sighs and cringes, avoiding Alana’s glare and Hannibal’s scathing look. 

“We’ll put a watch around your house, Dr Lecter, if you don’t mind it.” 

“Not at all. There is nothing I would not do to ensure Will’s safety.” Hannibal answers readily. Pleasing everyone in the room but the man in question. Jack eyes Will, the concern and guilt egging him to try and make eye contact with Will, but he stubbornly avoids it. Though Jack had followed his recommendation of staying away from Will, Hannibal was still disapproving of Jack’s actions in Will’s life. Granted, some of them were ‘encouraged’ by Hannibal, but he is not going to acknowledge that... 

After Hannibal had escorted his guest out the door, he returned to find a very drained and irritated Will Graham sitting on his sofa, he was looking off thoughtfully, his face crumpled in distress. In his head he was seeing the body – his serenade. An unwanted gift that brought to mind images of a girl, naked and mounted on a stag. Only this time he saw Abigail mounted on the antlers, and his mind recoiled from the image so hard he gasped. 

_Not again. Please not again._

Not another psychopath wanting him to choke on their madness. Will feels himself spiralling into melancholy and dread. Hannibal approached, heart heavy and mind jealous of Budge’s place in his mind. He sees the fatigue on Will’s face as he looks up and lets him have the first word. 

“Do you really think it’ll be that easy? Budge will just be arrested and it’ll all go away?” 

Hannibal only gazes evenly at him and Will frowns. “He knows the FBI is your tool. He’ll run before they catch him. He wants them to try catching him. He’s cocky and he has nothing to lose.” 

“Such things are more of a risk to him than to anyone else. Rash actions and recklessness often beg ill for the subject rather than his target. Especially if one has the full weight of the law on them and someone to protect them…” the sentence tapers off with clear meaning and Will wonders if Hannibal has a plan. Or if he himself is too cocky for his britches too. He wonders if he will survive this. He wonders if it even matters. Will sighs, grimacing and cringing, wrapping his jacket around himself tighter. 

“What can I do to help you, Will?” Hannibal asks. 

Wills mind is surprisingly blank, exhausted from the emotional tension and he answers truthfully: “I’m hungry.” 

Hannibal smiles and steps away from the doorway. “Do you have anything in particular in mind?” 

“…. eggs.” Will says blankly. Then, images of Cassie Boyle, her lungs fried to perfection comes unbidden to his mind and he shakes his head. “With onions.” Hannibal nods and places a hand at the small of Will’s back to direct him to the comfy chair in the kitchen. The soft domesticity should be alarming but Will is too exhausted. He is not sure if should feel safer or more afraid... Already, Will was feeling the walls closing in on him, his house arrest all too real – trapped with one killer while another hunts beyond his walls. His mind had too many images of blood and death when he had sworn not to be a part of that anymore. And yet. _Who am I kidding?_ Will thought. _I’m rooming with the Chesapeake Ripper._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How was your week guys?
> 
> I'm still jobless.
> 
> And fat.
> 
> And there's a virus out soooo mum says i shouldn't go out but i wanna go have swimming lessons so i can swim like twice a week and excerise while not sweating.... so.... 
> 
> And there's no swimming service i'm familiar with cos i've never done it before.... so....


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will tries again...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER
> 
> Graphic depictions of attempted suicide and self-mutilation. IF you need help urgently, seek it and turn away now. IF you're recovering and still there, please be careful reading. This is very serious.
> 
> I fed from all my past experiences cutting myself and wanting to kill myself. Mostly i chicken out, but sometimes i just wanna be a bitch and do it and i regret it later. I'm also a masochist because yeah, i'm still semi-proud of my scars. and that's probably unhealthy and i should go for therapy.

Three days into the house arrest, Will was ready to lose his shit. This new prison was of a different sort. Being trapped in Hannibal’s house was like being entombed in granite – cold and hard. After three consecutive kinds of prisons, Will would have thought he would be institutionalised by now. There were days where his mood would be fair; Winston was with him and he was left relatively alone. Though he did get cabin fever and he was not allowed out of the house, and he had a ton of reading material. Will tried to convince himself that it was not so bad. Others no doubt had it worse than him – he was at least not strapped into a straightjacket and stuck into a padded cell like he was before. But he was the prisoner of a master manipulator and killer. His prison was of a mental kind – the kind that sapped at his energy and demoralised him entirely. His captor’s victims were all dead and cannibalised. It could be worse, Will told himself. He could be dead. Then he would wonder why that was ‘worse’. Would that not be better? No more everlasting freedom than death. He began to wonder what it would be like to be dead. To be consumed by Hannibal. No more being plucked at by the man, no more looks that opened him up and threatened to carve into his chest. No more fear. No more games, no more psychopaths, no more death. And no greater death than to be used for something useful... Will shook his head. _No._ That was just Hannibal’s pathology talking to him. He told himself, Winston would need him. But Winston did not really. He had Alana and any number of caregivers. Hannibal would not kill him. It was just a mindless critter to him. Not for consumption or for companionship. He would be safe if he was gone. 

The threat of Tobias Budge was negligible and insignificant to Will. He was just another crazy son of a bitch chasing a fantasy. And even if he broke in, what could Tobias do? Stab him? Will would sooner pull the knife out and stab him back with his own knife than be afraid of _him_ of all people. It was Hannibal he was afraid of. 

He knew realistically, Hannibal had some kind of plan for him, some kind of slow torment that he could not fathom. And it was working, it was killing him. The mystery of Hannibal and what he wanted from Will made him ill with anxiety to the point of mad grief. What exactly did he want from him? Why could he not just let him go? Instead he was trapped here... Trying not to lose his mind. Being forced into seclusion by Tobias seemed to bring all of Will’s fears to the forefront, where before it was more of a slow simmer. Now it was boiling over. The walls closing in around him seemed to be doing the trick, and Will even wondered if this was all part of the plan. Boxing him in to steep. Just a taste of freedom in the guise of afternoon walks, and Will was going tepid with fear once it was taken from him. Will was disappointed with himself. 

The nights were unbearable, where Will would either toss and turn in fitful restlessness, or he would have violent night terrors that drew Hannibal to his room to feast on the miasma of his fear after equally horrifying nightmares, trying to comfort him, touch him, hold him... He could not escape his gloom. He felt hopeless and alone despite the furry company. In a sense, he had not changed in circumstance at all – he was alone with only a dog for company. The only difference was now he knew he was fed by the devil. 

The days were claustrophobic and often the worst. An agitation and a desperation for escape. The house was so quiet and he was so afraid. Even holding on to Winston could not sooth his anxiety attacks. He would pace up and down, alone in the large opulent house that smelt and smacked of Hannibal and his control over him. He knew that his prison walls were better than most but he still grew perturbed at the stillness of the mausoleum. He could break down and cry, he could punch his fists into the walls, but he could not stop the clawing ache to hurt somewhere other than the inside. He would lock Winston away when he had his bouts of anxiety. And he reminded himself of a hysterical old maid, wringing her hands in frustration. 

He knew it was all in his head. He was not crazy. He was just being emotional. It was irrational. He had killed people before. By any estimate, he should be strong and mighty or some kind of adjective Hannibal could conjure. But he did not feel it at all. He felt sick. Sick to the core. He felt nauseous whenever he ate, his appetite suffered, his sleep already deceased. Winston could not comfort him. He felt like he could not breathe. He had a mass of frantic energy that wandering the house in boredom could not tire out. Popping up in room to room, smelling Hannibal everywhere. Seeing _his_ things everywhere. Hearing _his_ voice explaining every intriguing trinket in his mind. Despite his wanderings, he never found Hannibal’s kill room. Not that Will was curious to see it; it just impressed and annoyed him in equal measure it was so well hidden. 

He wandered frantically into Hannibal’s study, a place that he rarely ventured, for it reminded him too much of Hannibal’s office where they had their ‘therapy’. He paced off the four corners of the room, studied the paintings with barely a glance, touched at the leather furnishings. He itched for an outlet. Landing on the wooden desk - made out of some kind of sturdy wood and varnished with some kind of tacky finish - Will approached and reached for the drawers. The clatter and resistance as he pulled back was expected but grating. _Locked_. Feeling naughty and also because he could not care a whit about Hannibal’s privacy after his had been so violated, he drew the hairpin Alana had dropped on her visit from his pocket and decided snooping on Hannibal’s things was not such a bad idea and perhaps would itch the scratch inside him. 

It certainly drew his attention. He focused on the task, anxiety tampered and at bay – though he should feel anxiety of a different kind; that Hannibal would find out and be angry. Poking at the locks, Will was grateful that his time in law enforcement and making a few cheeky friends gave him this useful skillset, and the lock gave. Wrenching it open, he was disappointed to find that this drawer was full of papers – drawings and sketches. 

_That was underwhelming_... Will grumbled. 

Picking up the stack of loose papers, Will leafed through them. Sketches of landscapes, skylines of foreign exotic places – no doubt places from Hannibal’s memories. Will felt the faint stirrings of his imagination, stepping into the life of Hannibal’s youth and understanding where his appreciation for beauty and human ingenuity had come from. Or at least one reason, that being his extensive travels. Flipping through each like a slideshow, Will began to feel disappointment at finding nothing of interest until he stopped at something that was not like the others. It was not an inanimate object or fanciful memory. 

It was a drawing of _him_. 

Will’s fingers slowed as he flipped each sketch one after the other. Dozens of them. All of him. Spanning the months that Hannibal had known him. From the early days where Hannibal had a fascination with his frenetic eyes, to the glazed look. His brows furrowed in desperation and distress. To the later days of Will, the steely glares he would give Hannibal. An image of Will laid out on an altar like a scene from a Greek myth, wrists bleeding across the marble slab. There were so many. And each told a story. It was almost like a diary of sorts. Will could read the thoughts and feelings of Hannibal, as each sketch progresses, the feelings grew, the images changed. Whimsy in the sketches of myths or Will substituted in place of a famous painting. Fascination when catching Will in profile or repose. The focus Hannibal had on the little things. Will’s hands, clutching cloth – or sheets. And then sketches of Will’s broad naked shoulders, the dip of a clavicle, the poise of the small of his spine. Will wondered if these more intimate personal sketches were from Hannibal’s imaginations or from when he started gaslighting and hypnotising him... It presented an imago of Will that was so disparate from the reality that Will felt almost elevated, yet slightly sick at the sight. To see how Hannibal saw him – beautiful, perfection, strength and grace. A rugged vision... To think of Hannibal thinking of those parts of his body... 

Will’s stomach plummeted like a stone down a dark and ominous well, churning with acid. He slammed down the papers into the drawer, not being able to bear the sight of it any longer. The drawer rattled with a decidedly solid clunk and Will noticed then the sharpened scalpel hidden under the stack. As if Hannibal had tucked it and hidden it away before locking it. To Hannibal, the scalpel represented something far more dangerous than Will finding his drawings. And Will knew why. Briefly, Will entertained the notion burying it in Hannibal’s neck. But the sight of blood gushing out of Hannibal twisted his face and brought a grimace to it. 

Taking up the small blade, Will stared at it before sinking to the carpet and leaning against the desk. His mind flashed back to the day he tried to end it all. The red of the blood.... it was so fresh... it reminded him of the crimes he recreated. This time he was the victim, and it terrified and excited him in equal measure. To be so tantalisingly close to his own death... Will shuddered at it. The coldness of oblivion he felt as he slipped away, the terror of the pain of death, despite wanting it. He could remember and he could relive it all over again. Fresher and more vivid because it had happened to him before. The knife flashed bright in the sun as Will’s hand trembled. He wished he could feel that numbness those prison days had brought him. It made it easier.... this would all be easier.... 

He brought the blade down to his left wrist, the scar of his previous attempt still a ghost across his skin. It marred it with a puckered raised line of flesh. Like a dotted line prepared for him to follow. To just follow the line... he shivered and wetness overcame his eyes. He wiped them away viciously, hating his own weakness. 

_Why do I want to live anyway? Why am I so afraid? I can be free of Hannibal._

_Hannibal would be so displeased.... Ruining his shiny toy... Cutting up the pretty façade of a pretty boy..._

_He would...be sad... would he?_

_Why does it even matter if he is?!_

_Fuck him._

Will shivered, tears streaking his face and blinding him. The blade felt so strong under his fingers as he pressed it lightly to his arm. He could see himself pressing it into his arm. He could feel the pain as the ooze of red life flowed. He could see it dripping down his pale arm. He could see it falling unto the carpet. Hannibal’s pretentious Persian rug... splattered with red iron, permanently staining it. Hannibal would have to throw it out. How long would it take for Hannibal to find him? Five hours? Seven? By that time, he would at least be weak from blood loss. When Hannibal would find him, he would be pale and reduced to a cold husk. Would he cry? Would he be disappointed and haul his body to the basement that Will never found? Would he take his heart or brain first? What would Hannibal think? 

_What does it even matter what he thinks? I'll be dead!_

Somewhere, Winston was whining from behind a door. And Will did not know whether he was hallucinating or if it was really happening. 

Will’s breath shuddered as tears escaped him and he slumped back with a gasp. Exhausted. He could not do it. He was scared. His entire existence was full of fear. Ever since Hannibal came to see him in his prison, ever since he set foot in this house. Afraid for his life. The life that suddenly mattered to him now. Why did it? He was unhappy here. He was lonely. He was afraid Hannibal would eat him at any moment. He was afraid that Hannibal would cut into his flesh even when he was dead. He was afraid of the game Hannibal was playing with him now; because he did not know what the game even was or how it would end. 

He was afraid... because he did not want to die. He just wanted to stop hurting all the time... 

Will flipped his wrist over. And this time, though he was still shivering, he pressed the metal to his arm. Cutting across in thin lines, pressing harder each time. Until he had 18 thin lines that oozed pinpricks of blood across the top of his forearm. It felt good to release the pain inside. But it did nothing to soothe or fix his problems. Slumping back till his head knocked the desk behind him, he sighed and let his arm drop. The pain was not so bad, it just flared pulses and bursts of ache and he felt little droplets of blood run down to his fingers, down his wrist where if he had cut there, it would no doubt flow in gushes. He already had thin white lines all over his arms from his past forays into self-violence. And he admired them and was repulsed by them. 

The blood flowed in drips and drabs and Will’s breathing calmed. 

Better. At least. 

Will did not know why, though it should not surprise him since he never slept well, but he fell asleep leaning against the desk and was woken by the front door slamming shut. Startled, he looked up at the window. Now darkened, the room was almost entirely pitch black. He was shocked to realis he had fallen asleep clutching the scalpel and his arm, now dried but caked with frozen blood was leaning against his side, exacerbating the pain. He jumped up, suddenly afraid like a guilty school boy. He had to hide the blade. Hide everything. He tossed the scalpel in the drawer, burying it under the papers back to its original place. He tugged his sleeve down, a little rougher than he would like in his haste. He twisted the lock back into place and dashed to the door, flicking on the light and sat himself into the leather chair by the desk as if he had been there all day. Waiting now for Hannibal to come looking for him, he realised it was stupid of him to just pose himself in the blank study with nothing to do. Usually Hannibal found him reading a book, but here he was, empty-handed and looking hurried. 

_Idiot!_

He hurriedly grabbed the first book in reach on the desk – Hannibal's notes on some patient or other, and settled back into the chair, trying to affect nonchalance. 

“Will?” Hannibal’s voice carried, having not found him in his usual haunts. Will’s heart pounded, noticeable now that he was resting in a still position. It seemed incredibly loud and solid, shook his entire frame with every frightened beat. He found himself surprised it could still pound after all this time. Leather shoes thumped on wooden floors approaching the study, and Will tried to ignore it and peer down at the words. Hannibal’s writing was neat and flowing. Pretentious and unhurried like the footsteps of a predator coming to stalk him. But Will could not read it over the awareness of his captor and his impending doom. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOOOO WHAT's HANNI GONNA THINK?
> 
> Looks like Hannibal was at least right in taking Will out of prison to get him better at least...We need people when we're lonely...Will is better now that he's been socialized with Hannibal, that's why he's a little more afraid of death. Bit sneaky of him. but Will is so desensitized to danger from being in close proximity to Hannibal that he's totally not afraid for his life anymore, other than in regards to the bigger danger in the room, and that's not good is it...  
> Will is better if he has something to do. Picking locks isn’t a good hobby Will 😂  
> Will’s first thought was that Hannibal hid the scalpel to protect himself from Will like using it as a weapon, not that it would hurt himself which is really what Hannibal was worried about
> 
> I JUST WANNA SAY. It is okay to feel bad sometimes. And i KNOW i should apply my own advice but that's a story for another time. Just wanna shout out to readers who feel shit.
> 
> Here's a picture from [This cute person](https://aleandriseige.tumblr.com/):  
> 
> 
> I am super distracted. I got back into my Yaoi manga habit again.  
> I got a email and i did a really super sudden, i was not mentally prepared, phone interview that did not go well the other day. and i have an assignment they gave me. which is already anxiety inducing since its a job test, but its something i never done before since i lack any professional experience so. Yay me.
> 
> I’m not feeling too good in my life sometimes and so please comment to tell me I’m doing well in my life or just this fic   
> Thanks


	13. Abandonment Requires Expectations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will jumps from the fire and into the frying pan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEllo 
> 
> It's been a few weeks and the reason is cyclical toxic one. I've been on this chapter for weeks because i felt it wasn't right. And because i felt it wasn't right i got depressed. And i was depressed because i was jobless, i was fat, i was bored and my mum is insufferable as mum's are but they don't think they are because they think they have the 'divine right of parents'. 
> 
> And i've not been writing at all because i've been miserable even though misery is my muse. She's a fickle bitch that makes me have 4 decayed teeth and now i have to go to the dentist even tho my teeth is so tiny and thin and sensitive even gargling my mouth with cold water when brushing my teeth hurts!
> 
> It was an endless cycle of constipated angst and then i showed [Cindy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwasamazing) again what i was writing and she loved it more than my other chapters and i was like ????? 
> 
> But she said to just upload so i'm just gonna throw the shit straight at the fan instead of stewing in depression and going over and over again 
> 
> So I 
> 
> Say 
> 
> NO!
> 
> I shall do it!
> 
> I still don't like this chapter but i can't give enough shits now and someone said its good and thats fine by me
> 
> My target audience is the Hannibal fandom whose favourite pastimes are flower crowns and gay eye sex and cannibalism
> 
> This isn't the most horrendous crime to grace the earth
> 
> Just my own standards of perfection

Will did not take to house arrest well. Hannibal knew not to expect it otherwise. He had offered to walk Winston in his place when Will tried making excuses for getting out of the house, but Will refused and was refused. There was a feeling of disappointment over the house; Hannibal at being denied caring for Will, and Will denied caring for Winston. Somehow, though both parties _knew_ that they would be denied, they still asked, and were thoroughly disappointed as usual. It forced Hannibal and Will to consider why they even hoped for peace at all. Will resented Hannibal’s possessive actions, and Hannibal resented Will resisting his help. Peace did not seem an option. The air felt like bitter almonds of indignation. Will petulantly withdrew from Hannibal, and Hannibal presented a cold air of confidence despite the contrary. Will was left alone, and Hannibal was left the burden of keeping him safe despite Will wanting nothing from him. The bitter taste of expectations falling in the dirt. 

Tobias had abandoned his shop, as expected. And Jack had not been able to find him quickly. Again, to be expected. Hannibal had to bide his time. He made sure Will would not be able to leave the house with security measures to his doors and windows. And he was able to monitor Will’s comings and goings, at least in the hallways and main entrances. There was a moment when Hannibal considered putting up cameras so he can watch Will’s every move (despite the fact, by extreme circumstances, they might be used against him instead). Or simply lacing Will's food so he was weak and groggy all the time, and even knocking him out and perhaps caging him in his room for a night so he could go hunt down his quarry once and for all. But the little voice in the back of his mind that began to take on the lilt of Matthew Brown would whisper dark things about how it would betray Will, it would hurt him, and he would lose him. Ultimately, it won out, much as Hannibal hated to let that side of his guilt influence him. 

Hannibal however, could not be bothered with the whimpering of Franklyn, mourning the sudden disappearance of his friend and a warrant out for his arrest as a suspect in the murders. Although, it did give Hannibal some joy in watching Franklyn spiral into madness a bit more, going around in circles about his self-doubt. Though it was similar to Will’s own beratement for his darker urges, it was not the same, and it put Hannibal quite off the man to compare the two. He made up his mind to give Franklyn a referral at his next appointment. He already could picture the rage and despair of the man when he slips him the paper. 

Hurrying home in sure strides, Hannibal was more eager to return to Will than usual. Much in part, to Tobias, and also the sense that he could not bear to let Will out of his sight, even for a moment. He had checked the feeds for the foyer and garage, but Will had not been anywhere near the cameras for hours. Not unusual. Nevertheless, Hannibal wanted to see him. To be sure of his safety. He tried not to let the implication of sentimentality cloud his caution and warp it into paranoia. But he knew it was a lost cause. 

* * *

Second only to Hannibal’s sense of smell, is his acute sense of hearing. Which was why he had been fairly selective of the carpenters that laid all his floors that would eventually be the groundwork for both stealth and as an alert system. He had learned the merits of keeping an ear out from the mute years of his youth being hunted. Therefore, though the house was quiet and all was as it should be, when he heard the wooden boards creak twice, quietly but in quick succession, he knew something was amiss. Hannibal felt the stirrings of trepidation. 

“Will?” He called. He was met with silence. His heart seemed to swell and skip for a beat before he swung the door open to his study and saw Will there, reading a book. Nothing alarming per se. Were it not for the fact that he was reading his notes on Franklyn Froideaux. Second was the fact that Will rarely had spent time in his study, though it was adjacent to his library. And that Hannibal had upon walking in been concerned about the whereabouts of his scalpel for sharpening he had locked away in his desk. All manner of alarm bells setting Hannibal off. On first inspection, Will - whose eyes had nervously glanced up to note Hannibal’s arrival, had flicked down in forced focus back onto the contents of his notes, to which it was not the most riveting of prose – seemed perfectly well. Still. 

Something was wrong. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Yes.” Will looked him in the eyes, another red flag. He averted it instantly, realising his mistake. He would not be a good criminal profiler if he did not. Will had instinctively wanted to inquire about his day, habituated small talk, but he also knew it would be suspicious. Hannibal was already on edge. It would be dangerous to do anything else. He just had to act natural.... 

But Will’s ‘natural’ had never been ‘normal’ to begin with. His abnormal reaction was the opposite of how he would typically behave. He was sitting almost attentively posed on the chair in a imitation of Hannibal’s version of polite behaviour – Will's empathy running riot in self-preservation and Hannibal was certain he was hiding something. He just did not know what. 

He stepped closer, slow and easy. The tall shape of Hannibal’s coat seemed like a wall of impenetrable and impassable mass, trapping him and growing larger by every minute. And with each step Will grew increasingly more uncomfortable. Despite Hannibal’s eyes roaming about, Will’s stayed determinedly away from his. The agony was killing Will, and the unbearable urge to run itched at him warred with the instinct that guilty parties always run. He would try to get as far away from the scene of the crime as much as possible. Will let Hannibal pass him, to inspect his back, uncrossing his legs from the seat to in an attempt to escape the room slowly and Hannibal’s close proximity. But in letting Hannibal close he had forgotten one of Hannibal’s greatest weapons – his sense of smell. 

Rust and iron wafted into his nose, slipping past Will’s defences and drawn into Hannibal. Hannibal's head snapped, a hand shooting out and grabbing Will’s arm, pulling him out of the chair. His heart shuddered out a thundering beat and his wide eyes bore into Will. _Blood?_ Rage crackled over his features and he snapped at Will. 

“What. Did. You. Do?” Hannibal growled. Will froze, breath catching. Hannibal was furious. He could see that much. It called an echoing response of fear in him. For the first time, the fear that had been with him throughout his stay was front and centre – visceral now and fresh like the blood on his arm. The grip on his arm tightened with every second he remained silent. His eyes flicked to the desk drawer and Hannibal’s breath caught. 

“I...” Will gulped, trying to pull away but being to stunned and afraid to react or resist. Hannibal’s eyes were wide and terrifying. _Oh god_... Will had never seen this much emotion on his face before. This was his true face... Will felt his body being wrenched forward and the useless book fell to the floor in a thud, crumpling at Will’s feet. Hannibal’s other hand squeezed at Will, crushing his wrist and the cuts under it with its pressure. 

“ _What did you do!”_ Hannibal thundered. Will winced, both at the shout and Hannibal shaking his injured arm under him. Catching the moment of pain, Hannibal grasped his hand and with one tug, pulled Will’s sleeve down his arm. Will cringed, in pain and fear at being discovered as his freshly dried wounds burst open at the force of Hannibal’s anger. It dripped drolly down his wrist and his eyes snapped up at Hannibal’s intake of breath. 

Hannibal’s face cleared of all emotion. It was deathly still. In contrast, Will’s heart was pounding faster. He looked into Hannibal’s eyes... They were split open – dark and set deep in his face with some horrible emotion Will could not empathise with. It flowed with a combination of rage, fear and disappointment. Will felt that last one cut deep. Failing Hannibal’s expectations. It was the last thing on his mind, but he felt like he was living up to everything he thought he was – broken, defeated, useless. 

Will’s body whipped forward and Hannibal pulled him with him out of the study. Will’s breaths came out in pants as they stomped down the hallways towards the kitchen. Past paintings and trappings of elegant grandeur, each staring him down with judgement and spite. The cold eyes of Renaissance women staring him cold as death. Russet wooden floor trampled under their feet, one set angry, the other terrified. 

_Oh my god. He's taking me to the kill room. He's going to kill me!_

Will found the final iota of strength left and started to struggle, but for all his resistance, he was pulling at an unstoppable force. “No. Stop...” Will whimpered at the back of Hannibal’s head. Will was dragged bodily, past the pristine steel kitchen and into the dining room instead. 

_Is he just gonna open me up here?_

* * *

The moment Hannibal had fully avenged Mischa and his family, it was a rapturous fatigue and breathless high of rage and power. After it was done, and he stood in the blood of his enemies, their sinew still in between his teeth, and all the righteous vengeance in the world could not bring Mischa back or make him less alone. When that revelation dawned on him, he realised that reckless, senseless loss of control was a useless addiction that only brought disappointment. He had known from the beginning, that the vengeance he sought would not fix anything. That he only wanted to feel his enemies brought low, that it would not bring her back. But he had done it anyway. From then, to the orphanage, to Murasaki, to Il Mostro – Hannibal had dedicated himself to the utmost of control and denied emotion and empathy. Only pleasure. He had nothing to lose. Not even his life. If he lived his life to the fullest, to the point of sinful debauchery, he would not fear death or its consequences. He had only himself to live for. It was lonesome life, but he told himself he was not lonely. The solitude was chosen. It was not exile if the pigs rejected him, it was elevation to a godhood that transcended any deity that would seek to take from him what had already been taken. 

Until Will Graham. 

He had something to lose. He had something to love and die for. He had control on every aspect of his life until him. He did not despise chaos. He courted it sometimes. He had done just that the moment he met Will Graham. But the instant he realised he could lose him, that it would pain him more than death ever could, he remembered Mischa. He remembered that cold feeling of abandonment and despair as he stood over what was left of her murderers. Abandonment that required expectations. Hope. 

_Nothing left. Nothing but indignity and the company of the dead._

Which was precisely the reason he regretted everything. He realised that loving made your life full of regret and doubt. He regretted not protecting Mischa, even though he knew he was a child and was blameless for it. He regretted not cherishing her more, even though he knew that he was not omniscient and could not foresee the end approaching. He regretted Will Graham, meeting him, toying with him and almost losing him to himself, even though Will was entirely his own person and unpredictable. Hannibal had pride in himself on knowing anything and everything. Which was why it affected him to such a degree that his actions caused pain to Will. And broke him from the man he wanted. However, Hannibal was sluggish to realise that anything in his life that had been worth dying and living for, had been entirely out of his control. And it seemed only fittingly cruel for all the pain he has caused that it took so long for him to see it. 

When he saw Will, flinching in fear from him, cowering in fear of his voice, and his strong grip – knowing how easy it was to hurt Will, how many people he has killed from that strength – and the rusty scent of fresh blood from his hand yanking Will’s sleeve, he felt that he had died a second time. He had never directly hurt Will. He had never laid a hand on him. And every moment from the hospital, Hannibal had worked to restore him. The blood coursing from Will might as well had been Hannibal putting a blade to his throat and ripping him open himself. 

He had so many regrets. The irony of the term was not lost on Hannibal. 

_To bewail the dead_. 

Will... was afraid of him. Will had hurt himself...because of him. Will had tried to kill himself because of him. In his rage, he had hurt Will. For a moment, Hannibal imagined giving Will what he wanted. A heartfelt murder-suicide – him curled around Will as they bled to death side by side. For Hannibal could not live a moment longer if he had to live without him. And he could not forgive himself if anything he did brought Will closer to death. If he could, he would preserve Will forever with him, until the final end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see; this week's theme of depression is abandonment. And the expectation of hope.
> 
> Boy do i feel that way all my life....
> 
> Just when i thought i was over it all i just wanna fuck myself
> 
> The good news is: i did not cut myself!!!
> 
> Anyway. [Cindy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatwasamazing) said it was the best chapter and most favourite out of all the stuff so far.... I just don't see it and i might add or edit shit idk
> 
> I'm gonna just lie here in a puddle of fat....
> 
> sniff sniff


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold War brews

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you like this chapter. I don't really but i feel so depressed and burnt out idk i've been sitting too long on this it's become a rotten egg.
> 
> Also HUUUUGE shoutout to [Cindy](https://madsteacup.tumblr.com/) again (though this is editing on the 7th of March) for drawing MY FIRST EVER FANART XD as an early birthday present. 
> 
> It makes me so happy and so proud that someone drew something of something i created ;n; 
> 
> I'm really blessed. Life isn't so bad and can even be great....

Will’s heart was still pumping with adrenaline when Hannibal settled him at the dining room table and set his medical bag and a basin in front of them. He could smell the fear wafting off Will blending with the scent of blood. Hannibal was more distraught than proud that now, within a few minutes of being infused with the scent of Will's blood and from the few times he had seen Will in the hospital that he could appreciate and recognise every note of it like a fine wine. He would wager he could smell Will bleeding a mile away. The notion brings both possessive joy and infinite regret. Will is befuddled and confused. A moment ago, Hannibal had seemed murderous. Now he was calm as his mask settled back into its rightful place. Hannibal was sure that Will was trying to decipher him, and only was met with more confusion. Why Hannibal had been so angry at him hurting himself, why Hannibal could not bear the thought, why he was gentle as a lamb now. 

He set the dish with clean water down, and gently began dabbing Will’s arm with the damp cotton. The fluid seeped into the light cotton and he gently cleaned Will’s arm, carefully tender where he was gripping Will’s elbow. Will did not react, but the wince told him it stung. Will’s frown and his heartbeat settled, and Hannibal could feel Will’s eyes on him even as he lightly cleaned Will’s arm and held it. His mind was turning in fear, Hannibal could hear it. A befuddled Will was adorable, but the scent of distress was like sour milk in Hannibal’s mouth. The cuts were a puffy pink from the freshness of it, and Will’s arm was warm to the touch with Will’s body attempting to protect itself from such localised self-barbarism. Will looked up guiltily as Hannibal’s stormy calm turned to the task at hand. 

“Why, Will?” Hannibal softly asked. It was a question full of sadness and unknown torment. Like someone had defaced the Primavera with sharpies and faeces. Will gathered Hannibal did not like Will hurting himself on principle and for the fact that Will ‘belonged’ to him in his eyes. Will shook his head mutely. Hannibal still held this image of him, his thoughts flashing to the doodles he found that afternoon of himself. The ideal that Hannibal held him to was an impossible feat of psychological engineering, not after what Hannibal had done to him. Was that what he had wanted when he started setting his mind on fire? A Will of deadly poise, soft skin and sharpness of wit. Will had never been that, nor would he ever be. Maybe, in another life, if he had taken a different path. If he had channelled Hannibal’s betrayal into anger and wrath, he might have been closer to what Hannibal had imagined for them. Become more like Hannibal, one in mind and soul until their beings blurred and Will could no longer tell himself from Hannibal. In a way, Will was now thankful for his trauma and depression. It reminded him who he was, and who he could be. But there was a clear distinction that no manipulation could get through. Simplicity in self-deprecation, lack of a will to live and stubbornness to be cured. He was at least glad he would not be what Hannibal wanted him to be. 

“I don’t know…” Will shrugged. Will truly did not fully understand his actions, nor did he want to explain himself. Just as he had seen the nurses at the psychiatric facility gaze on him with pity and disappointment, so too did Hannibal, that echoed his own. The vagueness of the answer was an expected part of Will’s attitude, but it still hurt Hannibal knowing that Will was miserable in his home and had turned to old bad habits. Hannibal again chastised himself for his carelessness – having assumed that a single lock would keep Will safe. The warring instinct of how exactly to do that makes a comeback yet again, and Hannibal foresees his eternal psychological flagellation will not come to an easy end with Will. Hannibal felt like a failure, of a surgeon and a psychiatrist. He could only patch up Will bodily and mentally, but he could never help him. Hannibal refocused on the task at hand, setting the reddened blobs of cotton and aside and reached for the anti-septic. 

“Are you still hearing this killer's serenade behind your eyes?” he inquired lightly. The subject change prodded Will out of his anxious ruminating. He lifted his eyes and gazed on Hannibal’s very carefully neutral expression. His eyes were still pitch and scared Will, but his touch was so gentle he felt almost comforted were it not for the anger he felt behind Hannibal’s raised voice. 

Will gave a weak laugh, eyes falling shut, as if hearing the tune again. “Well, it’s _our_ song...” he sighed. Hannibal was not ashamed to admit he rankled at that. Will frowned. “It was... a heartfelt plea for understanding...” Will’s eyes held a glassy glaze, mind far away. “And love...” 

“And you believe he risked getting caught for a serenade?” a warm hand tugs a gentle bandage around his wrist. 

“I believe… he wants to show me how well he plays…” Will mumbled into the table. 

Hannibal’s countenance was one of sad jealousy and Will was too preoccupied to see it. Both men fell silent then. Will glum and Hannibal contemplative. Night crept up on them both even as the snow fell gently behind the glass door beside them. It was ethereal and soft, reminding Will of Christmases whose abstract implications of ‘family’ and ‘love’ seemed so far away with his current situation and who he was seated next to. Right now, he could have been playing in the snow with his pack, running carefree but lonely. He would have been lonely, Will knew. Hannibal had shown him that. Their existences were ironically similar. They were just alike. They were alone without each other. There was no one like Will to Hannibal. And there would be no one who could see him the way Hannibal did – all-consuming possessive ‘love’. It made his heart ache at his life. With or without Hannibal, he was doomed to die alone. 

“Don’t go inside, Will...” Hannibal urged him. Covetous irritation lacing his words. “You'll want to retreat. You'll want it as the glint of the rail tempts us when we hear the approaching train. Stay with me.” 

“Where else would I go?” Will whispered. It was almost resigned, tired and despaired. It reminded Hannibal of the great divide which separated him and Will. It troubled him and made his stomach turn in a way which even the sight of divaricated entrails could not. It was Hannibal's greatest failure. 

* * *

The next morning was as the morning of the landing on D-Day. The atmosphere downright frosty, and both men trying their best not to acknowledge it. Will quickly intercepts the food laid out, mercifully for Will to take, and rounds up a bare minimum of the somewhat paltry (for Hannibal) spread of food to take up to his room to eat. As soon as the thud of Will’s door closes, Hannibal sags in bitter disappointment. Hannibal’s forehead crumples and his mouth pulls down into a scowl. Not often does Hannibal fail, and not often does Hannibal show emotion. But today, he allows himself to crack just a little, venting what pressure has built up. He lets out a breath and settles down, alone at the dining table, where a few hours ago, he had sat with Will, and tasted his blood from his fingertips. It is sweet as nectar of the gods as only Will can be, and it carries with it the weight of the détente between them. 

The next few days are as desolate as the first. Will isolates himself from Hannibal as he did when he first arrived. Hannibal allows this, for he too is not unaffected by it. He knows that he cannot avoid the feeling of defeat. Will has regressed. Taking meals in his room, silent and absent from his presence. 

Though hindsight is rarely useful at all, Hannibal cannot help but torture himself with retrospection. His response to Will’s self-harm was counterproductive. His lack of communication a hinderance to the barrier both he and Will have built up since the day he had ‘betrayed’ him. Until Will sees Hannibal clearly, without the hatred of the past clogging up the flow of their communication, until Hannibal recants what Will would consider a slight against him in his choice of lifestyle, he can never begin to bridge the possibility of forgiveness. 

Hannibal frowns, twirling the scalpel he had quickly retrieved from his study in his fingers along a pencil that need not see further violence to be functional again, barely blooded as it is from when Will had used it. Hannibal feels the deadliest feelings of dread sweep over him at the realisation he has made. 

To be worthy of Will’s friendship, of his love, of his forgiveness – Hannibal needs to allow himself to be seen. He needs to break down the forts he has built – that Will has had little difficulty skirting but getting stuck at the top of the fence on the way over – and seek his understanding. The thought sends shivers down his spine, even as he presses his thumb expertly dangerously unto the sharp edge of the blade. Will has already seen him. Will has seen it and found it wanting. Hannibal’s dark secret had surrounded, crushed and mutilated Will, bringing his own to the surface, cornering him on the edge. And instead of accepting it or retaliating, had thrown himself into the raging waters behind him and allowed himself to be crushed in an attempt to escape Hannibal’s advance. Will fought back with defeat. Snatching himself away from the jaws of the lion by tossing himself into the furnace instead. Will was an unwilling Daniel though the god in question he never wanted to serve. 

Hannibal must fold in order to move forward. No amount of therapy that never works on Will, no amount of whispered words can make Will better. He must give Will the power, give him his life back in order to begin repairing bridges. 

He must confess his crimes. He must seek forgiveness. 

* * *

The nightmares and subsequent attacks make a triumphant return. Not that they had ceased at all during the weeks he had stayed at Hannibal’s house, but more like it had lessened. Will was so exhausted the night that he had cut himself and the whirlwind of adrenaline and emotional turmoil that he had fallen into bed and was carried off in the arms of Morpheus instantly. The night after, the night terrors and panic attacks returned. This time with blood and pain and a dark seeking hand searching for him. He could barely sleep for the pain on his arm, and Hannibal had to tend to it every morning as he trashed and ripped at it in his fits of fear. The usual itching sensations told him that he was healing, despite it all, and the blood stopped flowing even when he slept on it. Will was a blank check again; not knowing whether to laugh or despair that his body healed itself without his permission. They had returned now to their strange limbo tittering over death, Hannibal and Will. He did not know what to do about it. Hannibal still went to work every morning. He never looked in on Will in his sleep. And they sparsely spoke. The frostiness of the weather seemed to permeate the house. 

Will still sat at the windows, wondering and waiting. For what, he did not know. This brought the question of what exactly he was doing with Hannibal. Just waiting in a glass cage like with Chilton? A pet that Hannibal keeps around. What could he do to help himself? When he had come to at the hospital, he had wanted only to die. When he had left the prison, he had a vague plan to try and piece himself back together. Hannibal had derailed him for the second time in his life when he came to claim him. Now he could only play at petty defiance of guerilla warfare. At a loss, he could only wait. Occasionally he would see out of the corner of his eye a flash. But when he turned to look, he would only catch the ends of a red mane. His mouth pulled down into a scowl. His hands itched to see what Freddie was writing now, but he also knew it would only make him more depressed. Headaches – the Will staple – also made a cheery come back, but Will’s thoughts were already too muddled to be severely affected. The only upside was Winston, who loved snow, and it made Will smile to see Winston frolicking in Hannibal’s pretentious Japanese back garden with a frozen zen garden and mini bridge. And if some of the shrubbery suffered Winston’s teeth and claws, not to mention his pee, Will was not going to complain. 

* * *

The tiny burst of light had Hannibal raising his eyebrows in faux amusement. He gently shut the door behind him as Freddie Lounds smiled at him, tucking a camera into her purse. “That was rude, Miss Lounds.” 

“Did you really think I was above that sort of thing? Hm you seem - disappointed.” she smiled genially at him. The brazenness of this woman had Hannibal respecting her and disdaining her. Were it not for Will’s condition, he would have served up her tongue, eyes and hands to Will by now. He admired her perceptive gaze, comparable almost to Will, were it not for her infuriating agenda of being most rude for the sake of it. 

“We evolved the ability to communicate disappointment to teach those around us good manners.” Hannibal sighed. He turned the key to his office shut and turned to face Lounds, who to her credit, did not seem at all fazed by him, despite what Hannibal knew she knew but had not said. Yet. 

“Unfortunately, I did not evolve the ability to feel shame.” Hannibal could attest to that. 

“You should explore that in therapy.” Hannibal smiled. Freddie’s smirk only widened as Hannibal stepped forward unto the pavement where she was standing in front of his car, where he would have no choice but to both see her taking his picture and go by her for an escape. If she had lacked a tinge less of morality and a dash of sociopathy, she might be a great hunter. If only. 

“Your patients are not a very good advertisement for your abilities, Doctor Lecter...” she grinned. He did not react as she knew he would but there was more than one way to chip away at a monolith. 

“That remains to be seen.” Hannibal hopes that it is more than just a hope but a fact. That it is simply a waiting game. But it also is precisely why he detests and admires Freddie Lounds. She is a bloodhound and has the uncanny ability to find anyone’s underbelly every time. She, like Gideon, when he had sat at his table, had zoned in on the one weakness Hannibal had. And it festered and aggravated every time. Perhaps someday, she would make a good flambé. After her usefulness as a watcher is done, when Will is safe and tucked away. Hannibal tries not to get carried away with wistfulness at that. 

“Another killer at your doorstep, Doctor. Any comment on that?” Freddie sighs almost in pity. And they both know she’s referring to more than just Tobias Budge but also Hannibal’s houseguest. 

“None at all, Miss Lounds. I would direct your query at the proper authorities.” Hannibal humours her with a nod. She does not yield her position, even as Hannibal advances to close in on his driver’s side door. She only tucks her hands primly unto her purse and smiles as if plotting something. Knowing her, Hannibal suspects she is recording this conversation. 

“Even though Tobias Budge left the body for you to find? Or was it for someone else?” Freddie tilts her head innocently. Hannibal twitches but remains upright, hands away from the blade in his sleeve. She knows something. And it makes Hannibal scowl on the inside. Hannibal side steps her, hating her perfume instantly, and pops the door open. Freddie of course, is undeterred, expecting it entirely. 

“I imagine Will must be feeling quite lonely in your house. What was it about Will Graham that inspired you to take your first live-in patient? You seem to be taking unorthodox treatments to another level... And we all know how that worked out with Abel Gideon...” that strikes a chord with Hannibal, but he pauses with strategic blankness and merely smiles demurely at the trash reporter. 

“Good day, Miss Lounds.” 

* * *

Will gets a call from Alana Bloom. Something he had never thought he would dread as much as he does. She had not been round since the day she had dropped Winston off like an unwanted child in the middle of a custody battle, but then, she had also not been fucking Hannibal lately either. Will does not need to wonder what all _that_ is about. She must not satisfy whatever Hannibal wants to be satisfied. Yet somehow Will’s dour face does... Her absence in a way, Will is grateful for. Partially because he does not want her to see him like this – cut up, bruised exhausted eyes, and hair shaggy as a mane. It must drive Hannibal up the wall with how long and sometimes oily it gets when Will forgets to shower. He wonders perhaps if the reason is because he still cares about her. For her? Will shakes his head. It goes in circles, his empathy. Best not to worry too much. 

It's about Tattle Crime, and Will’s stomach drops again. The beat of silence is awkward enough Alana coughs to sooth the tension in her throat. Her contradicting instinct of wanting to protect Will but also wanting him to be independent in his own therapy is really counterproductive. Warning him off the site for Lounds’ recent article about him and the latest killings and what she calls ‘baseless accusations’ in regards to both what she says about Will and about Hannibal apparently. But her warning only itches at Will’s curiosity. And Will knows how that kills the cat. It had done with Will... No doubt, with how an avid reader Hannibal is of her trash rag, he would have seen it. He wonders if they will chat about it when he gets back home. But in the meantime, he has to know... 

Not quite diving for Hannibal’s tablet in the dreaded study, Will opens up the page to the website, feeling guilty for adding to her ad revenue, and wondering why Hannibal is so chill about his tablet security. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello
> 
> It has been a while. Thank you for anyone still reading. I'm so thankful for your readership.
> 
> Freddie is full of double meanings  
> Also I made a hugh dancy joke i dunno if you noticed 😂
> 
> Its been such a weird week. I hate dentists. But apparently my weight isnt the only thing i let go. 4 cavaties and 4 seperate uncomfortable trips to the dentist. And this last one because of my gag reflex i felt like i was choking on my own tongue cos they numbed it lol. Hopefully the Xanax my GP gave me will 'calm' me when i do set up my next appointment..
> 
> =.='''


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time. 
> 
> The beginning of the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovelies!
> 
> I am so glad you're still reading this. I cannot believe its been 15 chapters. It has been 4 months we've spent together. 
> 
> I cannot believe this all started with me being bored at my internship and just enjoying the feel of typing on an office keyboard after years of typing on a laptop and just using this to share my thoughts about suicide. Every bit of the self-harm and suicide come from me but has been adapted to Will. But i'm so happy that there is an outlet and there are people who will read and understand and appreciate.
> 
> So Thank you
> 
> Also if you missed it, in the previous chapter, there is ADORABLE FAN ART that Cindy drew for my birthday! 
> 
> MY FIRST FANART!!!!
> 
> OF A FANFICTION I WROTE!
> 
> WOW!

**_Will Graham Catnip for Serial Killers?_ ** ****

_Last week, a gruesome display of psychopathic feat was displayed in a respectable and peaceful neighbourhood suburb in Baltimore, Maryland. Disturbing the tender peace of a relatively quiet community. But this was not the only display. As this reporter has touched on previously, another such body fitting the artistic displays of the String Killer who left one such display in the Baltimore Orchestra. Loyal readers will remember how this killer has managed to escape authorities. So far._

_The question of what this display is trying to achieve is on everyone’s mind. Or should this one_ _say_ _who? Many will remember exonerated ex-FBI profiler Will Graham, who was cleared of all charges of being the infamous Chesapeake Ripper after the ‘real one’ was found. At least according to the FBI. Whether they are actively sheltering Mr Graham under the guise of a traumatised ex-employee or if the shimmering men in blue are simply that naïve is for my readers to decide. Sources report that this latest display from the String Killer is in fact, a ‘courting gift’ for this fascinating ex-profiler, whom, you will recall was also the focus of Matthew Brown – an orderly that attempted to murder for the sake of Mr Graham._

_Will Graham is currently living with his former therapist, as a ‘patient’, whose negligence to spot Mr Graham’s rapidly declining mental stability was called into question on his arrest. Doctor Lecter was in fact the intended victim of Matthew Brown – Will Graham’s obsessive orderly – having survived the attack, and the reason why he targeted the therapist of his obsession is suspicious for various reasons..._

_The incompetence of the FBI to employ Doctor Hannibal Lecter is further evidence that the FBI is not as starling as it seems. It calls to question what kind of ‘therapy’ does the doctor employ? And seemingly endorsed by the FBI? The answer to the question of whether Doctor Lecter’s famous therapy is nesting killers is further supported with this new link to the String Killer whose macabre serenade is met with silence as of yet by the FBI and Doctor Lecter, who denied comment._

_This reporter has yet to gain an audience with the mysterious and enigmatic target of two killers (or more?). But be assured, this reporter is on the case. Will the bodies stop dropping? And what will the corresponding response of Mr Graham be?_

_Stay tuned for more updates._

* * *

Freddie was a wordsmith; it had to be said. Going into horrific detail of the bodies was good for her hit count and for the morbid fanatics out there out for the gore. But also, for the real killers out there. Like Tobias, who would read it and glean pleasure at his work being extoled. Will stewed with the tablet warm in his palm and chucked it back into place where Hannibal would see it had been used. He retreated back into the safety of his bed and lazed with what he could kicking around in his brain. Having no one but Hannibal to talk to, he felt his inner voice was more skewed than usual. But then again, he could never say what he really thought with anyone but him anyway... 

Will was surprised he did not feel that familiar sting of resentment towards her for her insinuations, rather he is able to look with more perspective with his lack of emotions. He supposed he should be used to it by now with the way that everyone had treated him when he was incarcerated and then forsaken. Will knew Freddie had been in contact with Tobias Budge. There was no way she would know the ‘gift’ was meant for him. There was too much detail in the process, almost as if she had been provided details in an interview. Will would not put it past her. And all that about Hannibal, it could just be pot shots at someone she knew was sketchy. But it could also be what has been fed to her. Tobias had already shown an uncommon knowledge of Hannibal. If that was the case, why would he not then just approach Hannibal? Why the elaborate gifts and roundabout involvement of Will? Will had a sinking feeling it had more to do with him and his value to Hannibal than it was Will himself. What could Tobias’ motives for being in contact with that woman? What message was he sending to Hannibal? That he had his sights on his prey? 

Something felt missing, like a piece that was just out of reach, familiar yet nebulous. It badgered Will like a loose tooth, wriggling in his head. It had been some time since Will had flexed his brain, it tired him but he could recognise the significance of it. He needed to figure this out before he got caught in a Hannibal’s games with this interloper. Before he got caught in a murder sandwich of painful death. Death did not scare him so much. It was the pain. 

* * *

Hannibal steps into the dark room and stands quietly, waiting. It has been roughly 20 minutes since Will had entered his room and got into bed. He estimates that it should take about 5 more minutes for Will to start coming into his nightmare, if he had not dawdled too much before falling asleep. Will typically has trouble falling asleep but the stress of the recent days should have tired him out to ease him into it. Hannibal wishes he could give Will a good night’s sleep, but that is something only Will can do – as is anything with Will’s condition. He is prepared for the trashing that is to come, and he will pre-empt it by taking Will out of the nightmare before the terrors can take hold of him. It may make it easier on him, or it may tire him out. Either way, it is better for him to nip the symptom in the butt before it takes Will. He knows that he has prepared an answer for when Will asks him why he is in his room while he sleeps; to watch over him and bring him out of the nightmares, that is true. But Hannibal knows the simpler motive: to be closer to Will, to watch over him, to step up even further into Will’s psyche as his protector and comforter – and he knows he will see it. Knowing the outcome does not deter him, in fact, it makes him all the more determined to stand watch over Will, standing vigil over him like he did when he was in the hospital, before he was conscious enough to send him away. 

Will’s face is a mask of peaceful sleep, but even in dreams, he squirms and twitches. Hannibal anticipates the rough movement to begin soon, and steps closer to observe his charge. Will’s breathing is slow but shallow, and it grows increasingly more rapid. Hannibal sits gently down beside him and waits until Will starts to groan and grunt, his breath catching and growing more laboured. Hannibal places a gentle hand on his shoulder and shakes him. 

“Will...” 

The man pants and his head tosses sharply. His hands are curled into fists and Hannibal shakes his shoulders more roughly. 

“Will.” he calls. 

“Ugh... Hannibal...” Will groans. Hannibal does not know if Will has sensed his presence in the waking world, or that he is seeing his nightmarish shape in his dreams, either way, Hannibal shakes him out of it as gently as he can with the tension in Will’s body until he gasps awake with Hannibal leaning over him. His eyes snap to Hannibal’s intense stare and he sighs sharply. He scrunches his eyes shut to shake the dream from his vision and he leans back to sit up slightly, putting some distance between himself and his bedside intruder. 

“What did you see tonight?” Hannibal asks. Will glares at him as he wipes the sweat from his brow. He is thankful that he is still mostly dry, having been interrupted from his nightly stewing of fear when in the throes of his nightmare. 

“I don’t know. I don’t want to talk about it.” he snaps. 

“Will--” Hannibal’s face is unsmiling. Will’s sees he is not going to back down from this intrusive line of questioning. He is not going to let his avoidance of the topic escape him much further – not allow Will to pull away from him any longer – and Will cringes back into the headboard in dread. 

“I don’t know--” 

“Will.” Hannibal says sharply. 

“ _I don’t know!”_ Will shouts. His breaths come in pants again and he realises that his palms are sweating and his heart is racing again. Hannibal is silent and they stare each other down even as Will comes down from his outburst. He sighs and turns his face away, looking down at the dark corner of his sheets next to his feet. “I don’t know...” Will sighs. His eyes glaze and Hannibal loses him to the darkness, his mind far away. He is a rapt audience to Will, keening for Will’s mind. The man takes a breath, mouth twisted in a discomfited frown. His hands wring themselves, battling for dominance to assuage his anxiety. He sees that Will is tense with unease and though Hannibal’s instincts tell him to reach out to comfort him – to pull him close so that he will no longer need be afraid, to depend on Hannibal and him alone – he does not. He waits as Will settles himself and allows him his time. 

“I don’t see anything. I just see darkness. I’m alone and I'm afraid. Always afraid. And there is a beast hunting me.” Will’s frowns, thinking of the low growl in the dark, and his fear an ever-present physical fog around him. “I don’t see it, but I know it's there. I’m all alone and I feel eyes all around me just looking at me. I feel like they’re going to rip me apart and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.” Will shudders. “The darkness is ripping me to pieces and I’m too weak to stop it...” The darkness of the room reminds him of the dark of his dreams but Hannibal’s presence oddly enough, makes him feel less alone, despite being the cause of his anxiety. Will tucks his arms into his stomach and curls himself tighter, away from Hannibal. He's cringing in shame and discomfort even as he feels Hannibal’s gaze on him like a gentle caress. He feels exposed and so alone. Will shuts his eyes. He did not think to expose himself to Hannibal, who would sooner warp his mind into something dark and evil, who has been worming his way into him since they first met. He had not thought before he spoke and it is with the subtlest of realisations that Will is so alone, that he would bear his mind and heart out to anyone – to just talk to someone – even if that someone was Hannibal. He scowls at his self-betrayal, knowing that Hannibal might well have engineered it to be just so. 

Hannibal draws closer, slowly and gently as Will withdraws into his mind again. He tucks himself next to him so that his warmth is on Will’s side but he makes sure to face him as he speaks. “You’re stronger than you know, Will.” 

Will’s laugh is bitter but true. “Funny... Matthew said the same thing to me once...” He looks up to gauge a reaction from Hannibal at the mention of his acolyte and though it is minuscule, he still laughs at it. 

“There is no shortage of people who are devoted to you, Will.” Hannibal extends a hand, to which Will rejects with a slide of his wrist. “You are not alone in that darkness; I'm standing right beside you.” 

Will smiles bitterly and avoids his eyes, but Hannibal brings it back again with a touch on his chin. “But though there is help, you must be willing to accept it. Recovery can only be made if you are willing to help yourself.” 

Will shakes his head, batting Hannibal’s hand gently away. He looks out the blackness of the window and feels the melancholy wrap him like a shroud. “I feel like everyone wants a piece of me. Even the people I thought cared for me.” Will looks back at Hannibal, feeling his breath stick in his chest. “Even those that claim to care for me, even if they did, they still rip me apart.” Will knows Hannibal is aware he is referring to himself and even Matthew, and he hopes that he feels chided for the scolding. “Even Alana and Jack...they mean well, they’re the good guys but... They just want to be near me and use me... Though they may not mean it... Just like you wanted.” Will added bitterly. 

Hannibal lets Will wallow in his loneliness, neither acknowledging the accusation or denying it. He decides to latch onto the parts he can fix instead. “You don’t have to be afraid of the darkness, Will.” 

“I’m not.” Will smirked sadly. “I know it's there now more than ever. No thanks to you, so kindly ‘pointing it out’ to me...” Will sighs and droops back into the pillows. Hannibal follows the motion with sad eyes to which Will ignores. 

“You can do great things, Will. You are so much more than what you feel.” 

Will smiles. He understands. He sees, vaguely a silhouette, an outline of what Hannibal sees. But it is nebulous and he finds himself apathetic to it. He says as much to Hannibal. “The thing is, I know. I know what you’re saying. I can see your design. I can see how much potential you see. I know it. I can see you now. But the thing is... I don’t care anymore.” Will’s eyes shine with stinging tears. He huffs a breath as he controls his breathing. “I don’t care about the righteous way. All the killers I can catch. All the lives I supposedly save... I don’t care about the darkness that you say makes me so great... The things that would make people run from me, or Alana looking at me with pity and curiosity... I just don’t care about anything anymore.” Will smiles at Hannibal. Will looks straight into Hannibal's eyes, and his breath catches, seeing the dark green piercing through him. It sends a hot spike of pain into Hannibal – Will's pain and his own guilt. It breaks him. 

_“I don’t have anything to live for.”_

Hannibal frowns, his eyes mournful. He opens his mouth to speak but it falls shut as a single tear rolls down Will’s cheek. He aches to brush it away. He wants to erase the sadness in Will. He wants to fix the brokenness Will feels. He wants to eradicate any threat to Will’s happiness. But all of that; is because of him. Hannibal has never felt more contradictory in his life. For once, his mind is uncertain, and it disturbs him in more ways than one. 

“You have me.” 

Will stares at Hannibal, sees the sincere belief in his eyes and the determined set of his mouth and bursts into an incredulous breathless giggle. But when he stops at Hannibal’s somber face, his eyes, he finds no lie in them. The sincerity is genuine, his eyes are true with no machination behind them, no wheels turning, no thoughts but feelings behind them. His face is empty of control. For the first time, Will realises he may yet be witness to Hannibal’s real face, devoid of a control suit. He has dropped all farce and it is just a face of sombre sadness. The sour humour that Will thought was a trick turns to ash, and he is faced with a reality he does not understand. Or rather something he does not want to admit. That Hannibal means what he says, that he is earnest in his actions, that he is trying to help him. Trying to save him. The silence stretches and Will gasps as the pendulum swings once, for the first time in months since his breakdown, since his arrest, since he saw Hannibal for the first time in Hobbs’ kitchen... 

“Are you...in love with me?” Will blanches in shock. His voice choked with dread and sickness. The realisation stings in its simplicity, and somehow the concept is so unfathomable, he cannot comprehend it. His mind is reeling even as he stares at the blank face that Hannibal is meeting him with. For a second, he thinks he is wrong. More that he hopes that he is. He is hoping against anything that he is. That it is all just a trick, because the alternative is too heart-breaking to consider. The reality that Hannibal... _loves_ him. 

“Yes.” is the quiet response. 

Will’s breath is stolen from his lips, and he forgets to breath. His heart pounds in fear and shock and he can feel himself starting to hyperventilate. There is a calmness as he observes his body struggling to cope and Hannibal watch him spiralling into an anxiety attack. He clutches the duvet and he ground his teeth against each other so hard, it makes his head hurt. 

“I hunger for you daily. Even if I am in your presence.” Hannibal continues, and Will shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts in his head, the images of...love floating around Hannibal’s. “I yearn to comfort you and find nourishment from the sight of you. I feel pain when you do--” 

“The Ripper doesn’t _love_ .” Will spits, angry now that he is being mocked. “He doesn’t have time for _sentiment_. He is cold and calculating. What he wants, he gets. What he hates, he gets rid of...” The words spill faster and faster as Will seethes at Hannibal who stares back at him blankly, angering him more with his indifference. “He has no time for love. He doesn’t need anything. He is satisfied in himself. There is no such thing as love for him.” Will shouts. Face a permanent scowl aggravated with Hannibal’s still expression. Will’s knuckles ache to pound into that marble face. Hannibal does not interrupt to correct or confirm it, only looks saddened at the thought of Will’s profile of him. It's almost...alarmingly real. It's too real. It cannot be real. 

“Yes, he does.” Will scoffs and Hannibal’s frown deepens. “You see him as immortal and untouchable. But he has no one and nothing to share it with.” 

Will’s eyes widen, and he gasps. “ _Is that what this is all about?”_ He straightens, incredulous at Hannibal’s inability to admit to the Ripper even in conversation with him and appalled at the statement made in utter surety. “You’re _lonely_?” Will gulps in a breath, face crumpled in despair and turns his head away. His stomach churns and resists the urge to hurl. Will's eyes crumple as the memories flash through his mind. All the soft deceptive words, all the lies, all the actions taken to ensure Will is absconded in his home... the pictures reel faster and faster and Will’s head spins with the dizzying implications. He pants and raises his arms to his head in horror. 

“All of the pain, all of the death – was all because you wanted a friend to talk to? All of it, just to get me to be your friend? So, I can what, kill with you? All of it without my consent?! Taking control away from me? Ruining my life? _For fucking what?_ Abigail died! So that you would be less lonely? **All of this was** **_for_ ** **_me_ ** **_?!_ **” Will screams. His hands are balled into the sheets and his eyes are glistening with tears. He cannot breathe but at the moment all that matters is the rage he feels. 

“Will.” Hannibal whispers, hand reaching for Will's. He is met with harsh resistance, snapping his hand away and turning away from him with a look of pure grief on his face. 

“Get away from me. Get out.” Will says in a broken little voice. Hannibal reaches a tentative hand at him and Will screams. “GET OUT!!!” 

Hannibal feels equally as wrought and does not argue, giving Will the time to process his words and feelings. Much as instinct tells him to hold Will down, force him to see the logic and perfection that is the two of them, he cannot. It must be Will's choice. It must always be his choice. He must let Will see for himself, let him judge. 

The door slips shut with a docile click that aggravates Will and he burrows into the bed. Will curled into himself. Guilt and rage crushing down and suffocating him. He was soon lost in the mire of despair and anger that swirled in him and the darkness of the room warped into shapes that closed in on him, threatening to claw at him. He tucked himself into a ball and let himself be blinded with tears. His breath comes in pants and sobs, rubbing at his sore eyes as they blind him with useless tears. Every part of him hurts. He claws at his bandages on his arm again, trying to rip at the tightly secured cloth but only succeeding in loosening and aggravating the pain. He wants to tear into himself. He bawls but it is not enough. None of it is. 

He is too drawn out in his own misery to hope that Hannibal hurts just as much as he does, if not more. If he even wants to believe that the blackened antlered husk could even _love_ him. And what a twisted love it was... 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp.
> 
> Feels bad huh? XD
> 
> I'm feeling it. 
> 
> I hope you enjoyed and keep enjoying it!
> 
> Quick Question: which chapter so far has been your favourite chapter? And why? I'm genuinely curious :D
> 
> My weeks have been dread boring so far. My period came on THE DAY of my birthday which sucks. I"m still unemployed. And it probably will get on longer with the way Coronavirus is going on...
> 
> All in all my updates are slower because i just dont feel as inspired right now. I feel dreadfully dreadfully sick with depression and boredom. I need to see a therapist. Somehow. 
> 
> I am sooooooo sorry..... Its horrid. I try.
> 
> And thank you for reading :D


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will struggles to compartmentalise what he feels about Hannibal's 'shocking' confession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY!!!!!!!!!!!!!
> 
> I got two new fanart for this this is so AMAZING!
> 
> THank you to [Tony](https://66.media.tumblr.com/0ddf44d90340f164e88850c9b6534864/b4115a29ffac3289-bd/s540x810/81e3996b147b681bf9aad7113888e3e06a3f37c5.png) For the fan art for Chapter 3 XD
> 
> And the most articulate appreciation for this late late birthday art that isn't fic related but its fandom related drawing of Will and Hanni from [Alise on tumblr](https://66.media.tumblr.com/3e0dd3876b4e0d362a8a56ea973a07a4/75332f2ee0b2b163-52/s540x810/f95410cd6ece30f43adb70dee70ec885366f1cc6.png)
> 
> I'm so pleased you liked what i wrote, and im so glad that i was your fan so you gave me some art :D

Will cries himself to sleep and wakes up with swollen eyes that aggravate his already dour mood. He finds himself a mess of tears, his hair splattering his eyes, a mess over the back of his neck, matting to the sweat on his back. He laments that for the second time in such a short time, Hannibal has hurt him yet again. Sprawled in the bed Hannibal has assigned him, he remembers feeling the same crippling despair dealt him by Hannibal, the weeks of sorrow and depression, giving way to grief and emptiness. Now, after Hannibal’s shocking confession, Will feels as if every crime Hannibal has committed feels of one, he is guilty of. Cassie Boyle, Abigail... Marissa Shur... All the ‘gifts’ he had been given, to ‘court’ this spectre of Hannibal's desire. The dark and mysterious enigma of Will Graham that Will himself failed to produce. Now, Hannibal has turned to soft confessions of false affection to achieve some semblance of success. No matter the truth of it, through Hannibal’s unusual and unwanted admission, Will takes on the guilt of the bodies which gnaw at Will, sending him spiralling into regret and loss, sapping his already weakened strength and making him nauseous. But after the sorrow, comes the rage.

Will boils with it. Where he had been an empty gust of wind in a dusty shack, now that shack is engulfed in fuelled flames, licking into the sky, ripping apart to its basest form. He’s so angry he feels like he could rip someone to pieces. He wants to hurt Hannibal, for all the pain and suffering he caused him. It was Hannibal. Hannibal and his mind games. Hannibal and his need to possess Will, to mould him into some killing machine of his design. All those lives were because Hannibal had no regard for free will – all because he wanted something. And even after his failed experiment, Hannibal still insisted on twisting Will’s arm, holding him to his empathy. As if he had any left... That train of thought dragging Will to Hannibal’s amusement

In an instant he remembers; the betrayal. Will is lit up like a tinder in dry heat. Every lie Hannibal told him, every false face. He recalls the anger at his deceptions. Back then, Will was helpless and caged. He was locked behind prison bars. Perhaps Hannibal was smart enough to reveal himself  _ and then _ put Will in prison to prevent his rage having its way. Now, Will is different. He’s a free man and Hannibal has trapped himself in with him. How the tables have turned. He seethes and paces. Hannibal had left him locked up in the house. Wisely avoiding him.

Love? What lies. Even now, he is still trying to toy with him. It makes Will froth with anger. What Hannibal feels is a lie of obsession. What he did to pursue it was unforgivable. Hannibal cannot love. Will is not special. He is just a failed shiny toy that flipped over when Hannibal had wound it up. Now he pouts at the underwhelming response and tries to coddle it like a soft toy instead. Well this ‘toy’ is not going to roll over and take it. Will thinks. And this expression of ‘love’ was so cruel, so despicable. All the pain will has gone through for his love… 

Will spits. Winston startles and comes up to bow his head. He had been cowering in a corner, eyes on his angry master. Winston whines when Will looks down at him and sees his dewy brown eyes. Will softens immediately, feeling guilty. 

“Woof.”

“Poor boy. I’m sorry. I’m not angry at you. No.” Will rubs Winston and he instantly wags his tail in hesitant flicks. Will drops into a chair in by his bed, reminding himself of Hannibal by his bedside, waking him from nightmares or restraining him in his night terrors. Every touch before had been sickening. Now Will felt downright violated. Will shivers. 

He takes a breath to calm himself. No sense in being thoughtless. He needs to think. If Hannibal would not let him go – which seems less likely given last night's confession – then Will would have to make him. His mind jumps to waiting in a corner when Hannibal returns home to stab him, in some vaudeville fashion plot. But he quickly recoils from the idea, the thought of killing still revolting even after feeling the hate he has for Hannibal. And he comforts himself with the thought that Hannibal would no doubt have doubled down on the deadly weapons in the house after his incident. 

He could call Jack. But he lacks any valid evidence and with Jack’s easily manipulated guilt and misplaced trust in Hannibal, it seems unlikely that he would give Will any time of day. A similar story with Alana. 

Beverly? She of all people might be willing to be devil's advocate. Looking out while still being firmly on the law. But Will vetoed it quickly. No, he would not want anyone he cared about risking to face down Hannibal. It would invariably be fatal. 

Which leaves a wild card. One that Will had barely given a thought of even though it might well be risky for himself. Tobias Budge. The man clearly had an interest in the Ripper. And seems willing to talk to Will if his weird taste in presents was any indication. If Will could get the two killers in the same room… maybe he could get them to kill each other. But how? Will had no way of contacting him. And with the FBI out looking for him, it would be doubly difficult. 

Will slumped. Huffing a frustrated sigh, he turned to the window to look down at the street. There was a police car out front now. Every day since Hannibal had requested it. And Will knew somewhere across the street in a nondescript car, was a low-level FBI agent watching the doors. There was no way Tobias would confront Hannibal directly. Or come by for a quick chat over tea. 

Will decided to shelf his plans for a moment and shifted to being petty. His favourite pastime. Will cracked a tiny bitter smile. Nothing like poking the bear’s den and seeing what would come out. Irritating Hannibal was never a good idea, but if he could be denying him any pleasure of his company, it would be better than sitting and doing nothing. 

In his mind, he keeps pouring over the reels of his memories. He lingers over the sketches Hannibal made of him. The pictures of him. Will had thought it was an ideal; a person Hannibal wanted him to be. Now he realises it was more. It as an obsession, a desire to possess him. In the drawings of Will’s hands, Will read a yearning from Hannibal to reach out and take his. In the shape of him, he saw a desire to touch, to claim…to hold. Hannibal looked at Will’s profile, and wanted for Will’s eyes to turn towards him, not away. He wanted Will’s angry and sad eyes of his memories, to look back at him with love. Hannibal wanted understanding. He wanted acceptance.  Will felt for the first time, he might be understanding Hannibal. And the final piece that was sitting jagged and unfinished slotted into place. If Will were to accept this – this perversion of love - a lot of what Hannibal did made sense. But to boil it down to its parts, Hannibal wanted Will. And that made him shudder.

The obsessive thoughts felt entirely simple in their desires. And yet, there was a frightening intensity. Maybe Hannibal may have been honest in wanting Will in any way he could. But Will would be damned before he surrendered so easily. He would pay Hannibal back somehow. Even though it felt strange to think of being ‘free’ of him. Where else could he go? Beyond the walls of Hannibal’s home, where did he really belong?

* * *

Hannibal had never tried to ‘sooth’ things over with a friend in an earnest manner in his entire life. Acquaintances he had made throughout his life had always been just that – people he had met, that might be useful in the future. Naturally, he tended to the vines of ‘friendship’ carefully so as to always maintain a genial relationship with anyone he met. And those who he had somehow offended, he had won back through various means. Will was a first for him in many ways, for one; because he had never felt like it mattered to ‘make up’ with an estranged friend before. Friends; period, Hannibal had never had. Much as he would like to annoy Bedelia with that title. 

As he parked his Bentley in the Port Haven facility and waltzed in, he ruminated on the implications and thought over the effects this gesture might have on Will. The last time he saw him, Will had been a ghost – white as sheet and weak. A nurse pointed him out in the distance, and Hannibal spied Will sitting quietly and alone in the garden. Surrounded by petal soft flowers and greenery, he looked delicate and small. His plain white patient uniform looked discordant with the natural beauty of himself and his environs. Hannibal could just as easily replace all the incongruent elements to the picture with his own mind palace – Will in comfortable shirt and slacks, hair neat, the garden chairs and tables replaced with oak and the sun shining a little more cheerily. The chill of the winter sun suited reality much better. For Will was not as it was in Hannibal’s mind – he was pale, withdrawn, eyes sunk and dark and he looked shrivelled and tired. He sat in a daze, staring into space, and left alone. Reality was so much overrated in Hannibal’s opinions. He was used to morphing it the way he liked. But this was a prize he could no longer toy with... This was his first visit to Will since he was released into the facility, and he looked...worn and very much like he had given up on life. 

Hannibal knew then Will might not be ready to see him. Not so soon. And perhaps not in this way. While Hannibal wanted to go to Will, to sink his fingers into the wild mop of hair that flowed almost freely down his neck and past his hospital collar, he knew it was not the right time. The sight of Will so  broken down and isolated tugged at the strings of Hannibal’s latent emotions. Not yet, he told himself. But soon. Perhaps, on his next visit he might bring him more soup that Will bitingly teased him was the common cure for sickness. The gesture would certainly not be lost him. He was eager to face Will, unmasked and seen. But the circumstances and the situation would never be right. Will might be able to see him now, but he would never engage him the way Hannibal would like. 

_ This is not what you want me to be... _

The damage had been done. He could only hope to nurture him back to health and see how Will handles him when he gets better. He comforts himself with the thought of a revitalised Will. Will’s self-isolation only made Hannibal more determined to get him back again. 

* * *

“Freddie Lounds.” Will murmured. The woman in question was standing in  Hannibal’s sitting room like it was nobody’s business. Hands on her clutch, loud skirt and obnoxious hat. She was smiling at him like she was a long-lost aunt come back to visit. “How did you get in here?”

“A reporter must have some secrets of the trade...” Freddie smirked, swaying on the balls of her feet. Will cautiously approached her; brows tucked into a frown. He was hungry, he was tired, and he was not in the mood for games.

“You must share some of these secrets in  _ trespassing _ with me...” Will scowled, arms crossed as Freddie made herself at home, perched on  Hannibal’s sofa. 

“Well, aren't you going to offer me a drink?” Freddie crooned in a saccharine sweet voice. Will’s forehead twitched and he clenched his fists by his sides. If he could handle Hannibal, he could handle  _ this bitch _ . 

“Not my house. And you’re not my guest. Trespassing, remember?” Freddie smiled at that. “What do you want?”

“The fact that you’re asking me that, tells me that you already know exactly what I want.” Freddie crosses her legs and there proceeded a tense stare down as Will settled into his chair and glared at her. Already within 20 seconds of being in her presence, Will felt his skin crawling in a way neither being in Hannibal or even Tobias Budge’s presence made him feel. And he viciously tamps it down. Much later, when Will has had time to think on his life and his many actions on the list of things, he ‘might not have thought through’, he would realise that feeling was wrath. That he wanted and could have and probably should have killed her. Because he can. And that rightfully frightened him.

Any other time, Will knew he would need to have his wits about him – because with Freddie, any word could be used against him. Now that he was weaker and ill-prepared for her predatory ambushing, he was seriously considering calling Hannibal for help. The thought of Hannibal brought back the memories of the lingering hate he felt towards his jailor. Thoughts of Hannibal made him angry again, and it filled him with false courage that Will knew was insufficient, but would have to do. “Why would I give you an interview? Talking with anyone, especially with  _ you  _ is literally the  _ last _ thing I ever want to do in my life.”

Freddie leaned forward; voice soft as a dangerous whisper. “Because if you ever want to get free of Lecter, you’re going to need my help.” 

“I seriously doubt that...” Will twitched. Outwardly it was easy to reject her. Inside, the wheels began to turn. 

“Tell me about Doctor Lecter’s therapy.” Freddie splayed her hands, showing a recorder that was already taping their conversation. Will felt his unease spike. 

“It's...not so much ‘therapy’ as ‘isolation’...” Will murmured.

“ So, he’s keeping you isolated? Holding you prisoner?”

“Now, where did you get  _ that _ idea...?” Will narrowed his eyes. Freddie smiled and tucked her head in mock submission. “I just might be a new proponent of social distancing...”

“Something tells me that there’s more to this whole patient arrangement that Doctor Lecter isn't telling anyone.” Freddie knocked a velvety gloved hand at Will. “Even his so-called ‘girlfriend’ or brief engagement of an affair, Miss Alana Bloom thinks so.” Will blinked at her curiously. “She may deny it, but I've seen how...troubled she is about Doctor Lecter’s treatment of you.” 

Will’s lips curved at that, and was promptly disturbed by the pleasure he gained from the twin implications of his vindication and smug glee. He turned silent then, refusing to give into Freddie’s baiting. She let out a put-upon sigh, as if Will was being difficult – like the nurses at the facility, like Alana and her pity, like Jack and his guilt – when she was just trying to help him. Will’s lips curled into a scowl. But that only served Freddie’s purpose of needling Will into a tight spot. Will must give her credit for perfecting the art of annoying someone to the point of exasperation in order to get rid of them. It was something Will had never really mastered - because it had required him to be sociable.

“Why don’t you tell me about Matthew Brown then?” Freddie changes topics sharper than a 90 degree turn and it had Will in a whiplash. It was intelligent of her, to catch someone off guard in order to get answers from them when they unintentionally answer her. But Will is starting to warm up, and knows not to be careless. He must thank Hannibal for this... 

_ On  _ _ second _ _ thought, I shouldn't ever mention it to him. _

_ “ _ Look,” Will shakes his head. “You and I both know I’m not one for talking. I want you to do something for me instead.” The sentence has Freddie’s ear positively perking. She sits up straighter, back posturing at elegance she can just barely achieve. At least by Hannibal’s standards. “You do that, and I'll tell you something. Just one something.”

“Interesting... And what is it you want me to do?” Freddie nods knowingly. Snake-like. “And before I do you this favour, I get to pick the topic.”

“No.”

“Yes. Or I  withhold this favour.”

“You and I both know you need me to spill my beans more than I need this favour done, Freddie...” Will smirked. It felt sharp, twisted and cruel. And Will was loving every second of it. To twist Freddie’s arm into uncomfortable positions. If Hannibal could see him, he would probably be beaming. And Will cannot have that. “So, what’s it to be?” 

Freddie considers quickly, skilled a negotiator and survivor as she ever was and she accepts.

“Fine. What do you want?”

Will takes a breath. Making Freddie wait.

“I would like to establish a line of communication to the String Killer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So as you can probably tell about the quality of the content of this chapter, i'm feeling really shit. The news is miserable, i'm miserable. Its all a big piece of shit ya know? And i'm not making it any better
> 
> Whole few weeks i felt like all my life is going nowhere. And this feeling is something i've been feeling ever since i was a child really. it never really goes away. I had a high when i was in uni when i had amazing friends, studying what i loved, and i lived on campus with them. It was the dream. But now its back
> 
> The more i'm unemployed, the more i don't want to work. I already feel like my lack of experience bars me from being a top candidate. But now my general lack of ambition and motivation makes me a shit worker. And its my fault. I don't have any practical skills other than typing reasonably fast. And i can sort of analyse movies and games and stuff. But at the end of the day, even if i take some low irrelevant job, none of these help me much. 
> 
> I actually felt few nights ago that it's all for nothing. I don't want to live a long life. I just want to feel one last happy week, and then die. fuck it all. I actually felt low enough to cry, but i usually feel particularly macabre at night. 
> 
> But who am i to complain? I'm healthy (sort of), i'm young (but i don't feel it, and lets face it, years of depression has probably aged me terribly). And people are getting infected and dying and suffering. I honestly wish one of them was me. Just fuck me up. 
> 
> Life's meaningless. Everyone whenever i feel this way be Like. 'It might feel this way for now but later you wont' and they mean it in the best way (some of them at least). I can't talk to my family about this because theyre closed-minded conservative asians. They still have not sat me down and asked me why i tried to kill myself two years ago! WHAT THE FUCK. And then my mom gets all confused as to why i'm depressed. she like 'go outside and play or something'. How do you make me love you even less than i already don't?
> 
> And she wants me to get a job. But like ANY job. Even if its just waiting tables and doing retail. That's already super depressing and sort of annoying in a 'normal' time. But its fucking CORONAVIRUS. Who's gonna fucking hire a person who will get infected? We're already lucky my country is still sort of functioning. Restaurants and shit still open. But what the fuck...
> 
> And every single time i have a interview, or an answer back from things i apply to is a no. And she's like awww.. Just go find some shit job and then maybe you'll find some rich person who'll bump you up the chain if you whore yourself out a lil (in a non-sexual way she means). But What. Ugh. I already hate myself. why would i lie about how 'great' i am. IF anything i'm brutally honest and i probably sabotaged myself. 
> 
> Oh well. Fuck me. Good news is i'm not cutting. Bad news is, its looking super good. FUck. 
> 
> ANyway sorry for ranting in this horribly horrible time, when we should be banding together to destroy megacorporations and asshole politicians. Its just hard to feel like i matter when i'm so small in the face of everything....


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal reacts to Will's message to Tobias
> 
> And unexpected consequences to his reaction.
> 
> Hannibal and Will spiral out of each others control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GOLLY I UPDATED!
> 
> i apolgise for not updating  
> i've been feeling rather depressed since forever and the isolation makes it worse  
> Being trapped with fam who tease me for being fat 
> 
> Chipping away at the chapter until it felt just right  
> of course, i'll never be fully satisfied but i'll take what i've got
> 
> ENJOY  
> ACTION TIME!!!

Will tried to swallow the acid churning his stomach into bitter butter. He told himself this was his reckoning. He wanted to see what would happen Hannibal was put into a situation out of his control. He wanted to see if the unshakable, unflappable, imperturbable Hannibal could be ruined. He wanted to see him weak as he was. He wanted Hannibal to fight for his life the way Will had. Were death on the table, Will might have had more trepidation. But all he could see in his head was his justice. His righteous vengeance. He wanted to see Hannibal’s face as if he were pointing a gun at his head. They took Will’s guns. So, this was the next best thing, and equally lethal. For once, Hannibal was the weak one. Hannibal was going to be beaten. And for once, Will was going to give this ‘dark’ side a go. 

But even as he fabricated it in the halls of his mind, he felt the sands shifting under him. It did not feel right. There was an image, a goal, an effect he desired. But his design was incomplete. His revenge felt hollow. All this was petty emotion. Will was running on all the emotions he had pent up, bottled and stopped from the moment he was betrayed. Now he was bursting. 

What he had wanted was not _this_. Blood and sweat stained his vision. He felt the heat of rage and bloodlust smothering him. He instead of feeling the answering pangs of rage, felt fear. His mind was spinning and his eyes felt like searing puts of boiling water. He spun, round and round till he felt so dizzy, faint and nauseous. He could not stop to think, when he instinctively cried out in his mind for Hannibal. 

_Help me! Hannibal, help me!_

He felt the greed, he felt the desire and possession. And he was afraid as the arms closed around him, as they dug bruises into his shoulders... 

_Help me!!!_

* * *

Hannibal read the article and fumed. There was no other word adequate. While he seemed steady, he felt off-kilter. His blood ran hot, and he felt heat in his chest boiling with bloodlust. The words Freddie had put on the page, words Will had provided her were deliberate and hurtful. Details he had not shared with Jack or Alana. Will proving that he may or may not had been entirely honest with his memory loss of Matthew, but nevertheless, knows exactly how to push his buttons. Or at the very least, Freddie Lounds does. The more the details hurt Hannibal, the more he wishes to believe it is Lounds and not Will that has hurt him. 

He stops in the living room, Will nowhere in sight. Sequestered off in his room in rage and fury, he would guess. The faint scent of unfamiliar, unwelcome citrus wafts into Hannibal’s nose and already Hannibal wishes he could stomp into the night to hunt. But he knows it is a risk that he is unwilling to take despite his wounded pride at Will’s attack. There are still enemies lurking out there. He knows not to confront Will for now, and trapped within his own circumstances, he settles for an orange salad with goat’s cheese and beet for the metaphorical murder. He leaves it for Will, passes back downstairs and settles in for a long night. He cannot afford to let Will out of his sight. The article may have barbed aimed for him, but the message was not for _him_. 

_A heartfelt plea from one broken mind to another._

_"...I believe this man wanted to help me, even though his motives for that are unclear. He killed people in my name. I'd like to ask him to consider his actions and their consequences."_

Will thinks that Tobias is reaching out to Hannibal, rejecting his darkness and affinity to the beyond. Tobias had approached Will, not Hannibal. Tobias had started out with an interest in Hannibal, true. But when he had seen Will and saw the same opportunity for friendship just as Hannibal had, he had changed his goals to suit. Tobias did not want Hannibal. 

He wanted Will. 

And Will was in denial for the value he had to them both. 

This cements the decision for Hannibal. He will bring Will with him, willingly or otherwise, even if he has to drag him to the office. And if, Tobias comes for them... Well. 

Hannibal will be ready and waiting to cut off the snake’s head. 

And he will not make his death a quick one. 

* * *

“ _YOU_ WERE A REFERRAL!” Franklyn yelled. Will would almost wince had there not been a buffer between him and the portly man in question. He thumps his book shut and stands, unable to ignore the commotion within, much as he would love to ignore Hannibal’s existence. He creeps softly to the door from where he is sat in the exit lounge and slowly cracks it open to see Hannibal with his patient. To which, his notes – because yes, Will did end up reading them – do not give this patient justice. 

Will senses the hurt of rejection. Stinging in its angry rebuttal for the underlying feeling of inadequacy and loneliness that Franklyn no doubt feels. His neurosis isolating him both in being alone and in his efforts not to be. Will gives a snort in amusement thinking how oddly similar Franklyn and Hannibal really are – two blokes, lonely and desperate for the friendship denied them. Franklyn’s face is cool but agitated, and though Will cannot see Hannibal’s face but for the back of his head, he can see the tired apologetic look of resignation. He knows Hannibal is secretly pleased to be rid of an unwanted suitor. Much like Will would like to, if Hannibal would just stop obsessing over him. 

The conversation calms as Franklyn commiserates over his misfortune and the reasons for it. Hannibal’s quiet voice explaining things in rational detail without the emotion involved, much like a psychiatrist at the end of his leash no longer bound to be mindful of his now ex-patient's feelings. Hannibal is impatient to cut this man loose. He irks him in his simplicity, he discomforts him with his familiarity – Will wonders then if Hannibal recognizes what Will did - of the uncomfortable parallels of unwanted attentions Will suffers from Hannibal’s ‘affections’. Though he doubts as much. We are most blind to ourselves, even Hannibal it seems, Will must concede. 

Franklyn starts grovelling, for lack of a better word, clearly trying his pityingly best to remain with Hannibal. Will feels sorry for this lost lamb. He is misguided and naïve, but thoroughly innocent. His only fault was his annoying lack of self-awareness. He feels small and inadequate and his admiration for Hannibal stems from a place of insecurity and social awkwardness. Painful awkwardness. Will could relate in a way. He is desperate to be close to someone ‘worthy’, to be able to emulate, to serve, to be enlightened by proximity. It is a sad prospect not unlike many whom Hannibal would feel are not deserving of the chance at life should they go about it in a rude way. Franklyn’s only crime was being naïve in the face of killers. 

“Doctor Lecter, please. Surely, I'm not beyond saving? Maybe you could give me another chance?” Franklyn pleaded. Will feels the pangs of pity swell. But they fade perilously into disgust when Franklyn starts saying he will ‘be good’ for Hannibal. There is a dual spike of revulsion from both Will and Hannibal, and Will decides he is bored enough. 

Bursting through the doors and pausing when the two pairs of eyes glance at him in surprise, he stops in his tracks with his book clutched in his hand. 

“Oh. Sorry. I thought the session was over. I was just returning the book and coming to get another one...” he gives a sheepish smile, feeling odd in its facetiousness and the lack of practice of smiling. Will eyes Hannibal, who has turned about in his seat with a look of almost relief. Will’s lips turn down at doing this favour for Hannibal, but Will comforts himself with the thought that he is saving the both of them further second-hand humiliation with Franklyn. The man himself is sitting mouth agape and halfway distraught at the interruption. 

“Not at all, Will. I’m sorry, Franklyn, this is Will, a patient of mine. He's accompanying me here today under special circumstances.” Hannibal dips his head not so apologetically. Franklyn’s mouth flips and flops like a flag in rogue wind and attempts to straighten himself. Will smiles demurely and waltzes to the bookshelves, leisurely looking over the titles as if finding the place of the book in his hands. Feigning an innocent look, he starts to casually browse while Franklyn scrutinises his every move. 

“You’re a patient of Doctor Lecter’s too?” Franklyn asks sceptically and with a hint of being appalled. Will’s run-down appearance, messy hair and seeming familiarity all insults to the portly man, trying too hard to be something he is not. But Will's apparent lack of care is an oxymoron to his existence and yet he garners such attention from Doctor Lecter. Franklyn correctly guesses that Will is the ‘live-in’ that Hannibal had mentioned, drawing jealous rage within him when it had been announced. Many nights Franklyn had imagined what sort of person this patient was that deserved Doctor Lecter’s time, his hospitality and personal care (and often time fantasising if _he_ were living with Doctor Lecter, as his patient, of course) – and _this_ was the underwhelming result. Franklyn is aware that the jealousy he feels is unbecoming, especially in the presence of Doctor Lecter. But he cannot help himself seeing Will traipse about Hannibal’s office like a young child exploring his father’s workplace. It’s an urge he himself has had felt every time he walks into Hannibal’s consultation room. It is an urge he has indulged instantly upon arriving in his waiting room, in the privacy of solitude, to examine every picture, to feel every piece of furniture. To touch his greatness, even if it is just his waiting room. Franklyn’s intense stare bores into Will, trying and failing to puzzle out what is so _good_ about him that Doctor Lecter lavishes his attention on him. 

Will makes another circuit around the room, this time stopping on the chaise where he drops the two books he had plucked from the shelves, unto the glass table next to it. As he roams the room, eyes on him, he touches carelessly, as he always had. When in the past it had been idle tactile self-soothing, now it was a purposeful marking of possession. Of Hannibal. That realisation has Will stopping short several feet from Franklyn, and he recoils almost instantly from his circuit around the room. 

He explains to Franklyn, who still is achingly curious about him, where he had met Hannibal and that he calls him ‘Hannibal’. That, has Franklyn clamming up. And a rather vague explanation about why he is in the office. He asks by rote why Franklyn was upset earlier and explaining himself. 

“I was saying that maybe Doctor Lecter lost respect for me because I made poor choice in friends. My—friend...” Franklyn hesitates, swallowing the errant glob of saliva choking him at the words. “Tobias is wanted by the police right now for murdering a trombonist.” 

That statement has Will drawing up short. Hannibal watches the interaction unfurl, curious as to Will’s reaction. 

“Tobias Budge?” Will asks. 

“Well, yes. How did you know?” Franklyn stunned into silence. 

“Will used to work at the FBI’s Behavioural Science Unit.” Hannibal proudly explains. On his feet now that everyone seems to be following Will’s trek through the room. Hannibal naturally omits the details of Will’s exact knowledge of Tobias. Franklyn’s whole body turns towards Will now, staring him down in shock and somewhat jealous awe. 

Will hides his shivers well, but Hannibal is concerned when Will starts losing himself in his thoughts. He restarts his circle, moving closer to Franklyn now as Hannibal senses his upset. He turns to look at Hannibal. 

_You knew_ . His eyes accuse. _You knew Tobias long before he killed for me. Through Franklyn._

Hannibal gazes back evenly. Not offering apologies knowing it would not be accepted. Will finds himself at a bump in the road, both physically and metaphorically. How to restart the conversation after his outburst, and what to do about this situation. He wonders about Hannibal’s motivations. 

Had he known about Tobias all along? And for how long? Did he speak to him? Did he know him as intimately as he did Hobbs? Brief though their phone call was. Perhaps more? Had Hannibal purposely set Tobias on him? Will reels, but he has not time to ponder and lose himself in his mind in the face of Franklyn’s raging insecure curiosity. 

And the door opening. 

“Did you know about Tobias?” Franklyn asks Will, the conversation on psychopaths with Hannibal fresh in his mind, trying to reconcile what he had suspected with what he hopes this Will Graham will validate him of his suspicion. “Did you think that he was a...” 

_“Did he think I was what?”_


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone
> 
> How have you been? Its been a crazy few weeks and the world is heating up recently. Twitter is making me super depressed rn. I'm still jobless. 
> 
> I lost 4kg in the last 6months according to my last gyne visit. (Without ant diet or exercise)
> 
> My mum's only response - 'You need to lose more'
> 
> .....
> 
> Strikes confidence and love in me, doesn't it?
> 
> Anyway, stay safe and keep healthy guys

“Oh my god. Tobias...” Franklyn gasped. There he stood, eyes as black as night and expression hiding a storm about to burst. His eyes skimmed over Franklyn after a cursory glance – a glance that Will recognised as a death sentence. Will could see he was marked for death. That had Will’s heart pumping, in fear of Franklyn and his stupid mouth. 

But that was secondary. For Tobias now gazed past his prey and unto Will, and he felt an answering chill. 

_He's here for me..._

_“_ Franklyn...” Will whispers. 

“Tobias, what’re you doing?” Franklyn reaches out to the stalwart man. Stony eyes slide back to the sweaty man, full of disdain and contempt. Will edges closer to his back, trying to be slow in reaching out to pull him back. 

“Will.” Hannibal spoke. Seeing Will’s heroic intentions and not wanting to risk them. Will turned his head to look behind him. “Get behind me.” 

“No. Stay right where you are, Will...” Tobias ordered, Will’s head snapped around to meet it and was still in silence. Hannibal matched the tense stare with a glare of his own and his eyes flicked to Will’s minutely to reinforce his own order. Franklyn gawked at a loss and ignored. Hannibal gazed at Will, jaw set and angry. He wanted Will to listen and do as he said. He wanted to control him. 

That had Will snapping. 

He had had enough. He was sick of psychopaths trying to control him. Enough of being tugged from person to person trying to get him to bark like a show dog. He has tired of all this blood and death and all these crazy assholes wanting him to drown in it. He had enough of threading water, heaving under the surf of blood threatening to drag him under. 

“ _No_.” 

Hannibal’s eyes flicked in surprise to Will’s back, whose shoulders were tense atop it. Will turned away from Hannibal. In that moment, his eyes were flinty and full of fire. He would not be controlled anymore. 

Franklyn gulped and decided this was the moment to step up – not noticing the tension between the three men and clueless to how he was the only defenceless person in the room – to diffuse the situation to save his friend. He was still talking when Will turned back around. He reached a hand out to pull him back, but Franklyn was stepping closer and closer, and with every rote word of reassurance, he grew bolder. Right at the most inconvenient of moments, his ‘confidence’ kicked in. 

“This plane is going down. Let it be a controlled descent. You can get back up in the air again. There is rehabilitation for everyone.” Franklyn smiles. Tobias’ fevered eyes glare back at Franklyn, whose only thought is to save his only friend. 

“Nothing has happened in our friendship that you and I can’t recover from...” Franklyn gives a weak smile, arms apart as if to embrace the dark man. Tobias’ eyes seem to seethe with loathing and more disgust and Will reaches out to Franklyn’s shoulder. 

“Franklyn... Please... Come away from him.” Will whispered, tip toeing forward as if Franklyn had a loaded gun. Franklyn fidgeted in place, uncertain now that Will was coaxing him away from Tobias. Tobias remained silent and deadly, eyes full of malice and hate. 

“Will.” Hannibal calls. The word makes him hesitate for a moment, his eyes wandering for a moment wanting to turn to glare at Hannibal, but remains focused on the situation escalating before him. In that second of his distraction, Tobias reaches out, and with a mighty twist and a flash of thin steel, he opens Franklyn’s throat with a wire. Will’s eyes refocus and he balks in shock as Franklyn the bumbling idiot gargles and chokes on his own blood, dropping to his knees heavily like a cinder block with a thud and drops onto the floor with a final fall like a meat off a hook. 

Will freezes up as Tobias turns his attention now to him, the body he just killed forgotten. Instincts remind him to remain on his guard, even as to his surprise, instead of finding more hatred in his eyes, he finds a tender smile on Tobias instead. He steps back towards Hannibal this time, sensing Hannibal behind him. 

Hannibal deftly slides the letter opener on the desk behind him into his sleeve, watching all the while. Now that the immediate obstacle is over, now it is time for the real faces to show. Will reigns his panic in, trying to hold his anxious breathing to a calm. But Tobias does not approach, only smiles. But his posture leans to Will, friendly and open but alert all the same. With Will in between Tobias and Hannibal, there can be no action taken without risking Will’s safety. 

“The police are on their way. They will arrest you, and put you away. You know that.” Will keeps his palms up, though Tobias looks deceptively unarmed. Though the slowly spilling corpse of the still warm Franklyn is evidence to the contrary of how very _not_ unarmed he is. Will risks a glance down and catches the sight of the wide eyes of Franklyn, the poor fool, staring between crumpled cheeks and he aches with the regret of not being able to save him. 

“They will be welcome to try.” Tobias rumbles in a low voice. “And I will kill them. And then I will disappear.” he comments like it is a simple fact. “But first...” 

Will steps back another step, but Tobias mirrors that so he stops. He can almost feel Hannibal’s heat at his back, and he admires the irony that Hannibal is _safer_ than Tobias right at that moment. 

“I could use a friend. Someone who can understand me. Who thinks like I do, and can see the world and the people in it the way I do.” he curves his head into a tilt and a sly smile. 

Will finds himself breathing a laugh and a scoff, but he is careful to catch himself before it seems like he is mocking him. “I know exactly how you feel... But I don't want to be your friend.” 

“Then why would you reach out to me? Why write to me?” Tobias tilts his reptilian head. Will's mind flashes to his haphazard design, thrown up in rage and impulsiveness. Of Hannibal brought low to his knees for his crimes against him, for his continued lies. But even as he looks at Tobias and sees his potential as Hannibal’s opponent. He knows, he does not want that. Not truly. He cannot kill Hannibal. It brings with it an ache that feels oddly like loneliness. A lonesomeness that until recently had been a welcome thing... 

“Oh...” Tobias murmurs in delight, his eyes flicker to Hannibal behind Will and becomes alight with realisation. “I can do that for you.” he smiles. The curve of lips has Will conjuring images of blood and death that he cannot bear, making him shudder. He shakes his head to clear his head and raises his arms to halt him. 

_No..._

“No...” he whispers. “What...” he swallows and speaks up. “What. Is...it you want from me?” Will slowly enunciates in exasperation and desperation. What inspires Tobias to throw his life away for a ‘friend’. What inspired Hannibal to do just that? 

Will gazes into Tobias, and Tobias looks back. It feels like being sucked into a vacuum of space. He gasps breathless as he _sees_.   
  


Its dark and its cold. But Will, he feels numb. It's not quite safety. But it's safe. He feels suspended like in a dream. He feels like nothing can touch him and nothing will. He's sitting on a chair with a cello in his arms. His eyes are closed and he feels the melody in his head. It does not connect to him but the sound is from a guitar, and not a cello as he strokes across the bridge and he fingers the strings. 

He feels so calm, adrift in the music and he feels safe, because of the man over his shoulder watching him play. The man whispers to him. Will dimly recognises the voice as Tobias, but he cannot make out the words. He is guiding Will, guiding him as he plays. The man smiles. Somehow Will knows this, though his back his turned. The man places a warm hand on his shoulder, and somehow it burns. It's too hot, its searing his flesh, but Will does not move. 

They both come to stand, the man’s arms around him. It feels wrong now. It's too warm and too claustrophobic. But it also feels safe here. It's too safe. The man brings Will around until they face each other and soon there is music all around them, melodies that Will cannot place, but he knows it should be beautiful. It is beautiful. It is their song. The man’s fingers dig into his shoulders, and Will flinches now. He cannot see his face, but he knows he is smiling and pleased. 

Smug. 

The man claws at Will’s body, and now he feels the nails on his skin, digging in. The nails claw down his body and over his chest. He feels so wanted. The man feels so understood, so happy with him. He wants to be _in_ him. Will’s chest starts to constrict and there is panic somewhere underneath his heart. There is too much. Too much of him. He feels the touch all over and it feels sick. Will feels sick. 

_Someone to understand me. Be with me. Someone to hold. Someone for my own._

_Mine..._

_“_ No...” Will thinks. But the man is digging into him, he cannot move. He feels the burn skin on skin, ripping and stretching him open as he thrusts inside. It is only when he sees the flash of dark skin between his own pale cheeks, does he suck in a terrified breath and Will wrenches himself from the vision. 

He meets Tobias’ eyes – the man’s eyes. And he finally sees. 

“No...” Will gasps. He still feels the echoes of the man inside him, tearing him open slowly and tenderly and he shouts, “NO!” 

“NO! I don’t want-- No! I don’t want to! NO!” Will feels the fear gripping him and tearing him apart. He doesn’t want what the man wants. He doesn’t want it. “NO!” 

Will’s arms raise to his head, as he stares blankly at Tobias, then squeezes his eyes shut to blot out the sight. But even through the darkness of his eyes he can still see, see Tobias, what he wants, what he wants to do to him. He can feel him in his body... 

“No! I don’t want to! I don’t want— I don’t... No!” Will breathlessly pants, repeating himself like a chant and continues to plead. “No... please...” 

“Will...” Hannibal’s eyes widen in shock, reaching a hand out to Will. But just as he does, Tobias’ arm snatches Will to him like a baby from the jaws of a lion and whirls him around to wrap the steel wire around his neck. Hannibal freezes. 

Tobias is a wall of fury and deadly, wrenching Will backwards as Will’s eyes burst open, wide and afraid at the rough movement, but his eyes see through Hannibal before him, still lost in his vision. He starts to cry. 

“No... no...!” Will clenches his fists into Tobias’ arm around his chest and around his neck, now the vision and the actual reality happening to him at the same time, overwhelming him, and he panics, crying out for help. 

Hannibal takes a step towards Tobias, but Tobias answers with a purposeful tightening around Will’s neck, even as the man struggles and cries. 

“Take another step and you’ll regret it...” Tobias warns. Will’s huffs and pants surrounding them both. Will looks as if he’s in pain, repeatedly stabbed with each moan and whimper. Hannibal seethes, snarling and showing his teeth in rage and desperation. Two raging emotions tugging him in two – fear for Will, and anger at Tobias for this brazen thing. 

Hannibal gives a cruel smile. “You wouldn’t. Not after all you did to obtain him...” He challenges. Tobias hesitates for a beat, arms pulling Will to his chest. 

“Are you really going to risk that?” Tobias smirks calling Hannibal out. Hannibal’s nose twitches in rage, teeth bared. He palms the knife in his sleeve and twitches with restrained violence. Tobias’ grin widens and he steps carefully backwards towards the door, Hannibal following all the while. Will is hyperventilating now, panic and fear saturating them. Hannibal’s eyes never stray from him and Tobias, carefully stepping round the corpse at his feet to follow Tobias’ retreat to the door, stepping backwards through the arch. Will’s panicked breathing is loud through the plain white door before it slams shut with a plaintive cry saying, “No!” 

Hannibal growls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GASP 
> 
> OH?
> 
> hehe...
> 
> I tried to be as ambiguous of Tobias intentions here as possible  
> You can read it as sexual or you can see it as creepy body gore vibes in a pseudo love way in usual Hannibal fashion  
> Either way, very violating
> 
> COMMENT YOUR THOUGHTS
> 
> They're water for my soul in these troubling times


	19. Danza Alla Daggers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Fight Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and welcome back!
> 
> I meant to upload this yesterday but i forgot XD
> 
> I was stuck on this scene for a very long time and that halted the entire thing for that long period i didn't upload befre chapter 18
> 
> But it may be a near perfect copy of the original fight but i hope you like it.

This was not his design. He was lost and he was afraid. So much fear. There were hot arms around him and they frightened him. They held him and trapped him, making him do what they wanted. He was afraid of them. The arms would push him down and spread him open. His lungs and heart on display, or his legs pushed apart and left vulnerable. Neither seemed pleasant and it frightened him. And no amount of protests could stop Tobias’ design on him. 

Will could not breathe. His lungs were panting but he could not breathe and he felt like there was a vice around his chest. He was aware he was hyperventilating, but there was nothing he could do to stop himself. He was so afraid; his body was trying to help him to survive. But his mind refused to snap out of it. There was a rapid booming like canon fire behind his eyes and he was drowning in heat from a furnace. 

_Will. You’re having a panic attack_ . Hannibal’s voice said. _Breathe with me_. 

Will tried, but the arms were moving him, bruising him and torturing him. He could not see; it was so dark and he was seized with terror. Hannibal's voice kept trying to calm him, and it was calming, the irony of it – Hannibal was soothing, Hannibal was calm. He would rather be with Hannibal than where he was now. 

“Will.” Another voice murmured in his ear. The gust of hot air brushing by him. “Come with me.” 

“No...” Will gasped. He does not want this man. He wants nothing to do with him. “No... No... No...” 

Sound whooshed back into his ear, making him realise that all he had been hearing was the pounding of his heart inside his brain. His ears popped and he gasped as he heard the breathless pants of a man in his ear. The arms were around him, but they were not violating his body, they were pushing him, trying to get him to move in the direction of the front door of Hannibal’s office, because his legs would not move with him. He was still in Hannibal’s office, a few feet away, or maybe even less, from Hannibal himself. They were in his waiting room, back where Tobias had come from. It was Tobias struggling with his body. 

“Come on,” the voice said. “Come here.” 

Will took those two seconds to take in his surroundings and now he pushed back with a burst of strength. “No! Get off me!” the arms were tucked over his chest and neck and he felt the cold sting of something sharp on his neck. He cringed backwards as Tobias tried to force him forwards and he panted with exertion through the hot tears in his eyes. “Let go of me!” 

A deep rumbling growl shook Will’s ear and he cringed. Tobias shook Will with a mighty shove that would have tumbled him forwards if Tobias were not holding him to his chest. He shuddered in disgust at this man, showing off his beast and strength, trying to muster Will like a child. He could smell the chemicals of Tobias’ workshop off his hands and his breath was hot and uncomfortable on his neck with the sweat already beading there. 

At the back of Will’s mind, it occurred to him to question where Hannibal was in all this. Was he dead? Why was he not coming to help? Did Hannibal hand him over? What was happening? Why was this happening? Will was running round in circles in his panic. Should he even be expecting Hannibal to rescue him? 

Will tried wrenching at the wire around his neck, pulling the opposite way – tearing at the flesh of his fingers but Tobias reached with the hand around his waist to pull Will’s arm down behind his back. Tangled and subdued, Will tried kicking instead, but Tobias had both height, strength and balance against him and Will was utterly supported by Tobias’ body. 

“Stop struggling and this would go a lot easier for you, Mr Graham...” Tobias panted. Will squirmed anyway, shouting protests all the way. They were getting closer and closer to the door, and Will’s breathing resumed its escalation. The FBI had police and agents at Hannibal’s house. But no one had thought to watch his office. Once they were in Tobias’ getaway vehicle, it would be all over. Tobias would knock him out with a cloth to his mouth, like all of his other victims and Will would be gone. For a moment he felt sick with the sensation of something big being shoved into his throat, choking him... Redoubling his efforts, he squirmed and resisted, digging his heels into the ridiculously polished floors, which right now were squeaking with the soles of his rubber boots. 

“You’re never going to complete your work you know that?” Will rasped against Tobias. There was a moment of hesitation as Tobias listened to him and Will pushed on. “You will always doubt yourself, doubt your work. You will always wonder at your own closeted audience whenever you play. You've mastered the craft... But you will always wonder if you’re as good as him...” 

Tobias growled and shook Will, spinning him around. This time his eyes, which until now had been tender and amused when looking at him, gazed at him with anger and frustration. This was not the validation he wanted. This was not what he wanted from Will. He wanted a companion to mould and play with. He did not want opposition and ridicule. 

Not like Hannibal, who wanted Will exactly as he was, who wanted Will to push back. 

“Yes...” Will gasped, “I can understand you. I know you. So, I know when I say, even if you take me, I won’t help you. You’ll just be a little less alone...” 

“I’ll have you.” Tobias rumbled. 

Will sneered viciously. _“You will always be alone...”_

Tobias snarled, snatching Will by his nape, wrapping fingers around his neck and this time squeezing at it until Will felt faint. Will gasped and flailed, a primal fear gripping him when being suffocated. He reached blindly towards Tobias’ eyes and dug his thumbs into whatever soft fleshy part gave. Tobias yelled tossing Will away from him and Will fell backwards. 

There was a weightless moment Wil felt himself falling and tried to twist to catch himself. Will felt his head bashing unto the solid wood of a sturdy end table and the crash of whatever was on it smashing into a hundred pieces on the floor before he ceased all thought and the world turned black. 

* * *

Hannibal was reevaluating his terror of the unknown, in particular with regards to those he held dear. He found that he absolutely detested things he could not control. There was a paradox, a grey area, where he delighted in an unusual or unexpected. And Will was central within it. But more and more, he found that he would rather take control of everything and anyone that came across him if he could protect what he desired. 

He watched the pendulum swing before Will’s eyes, unconsciously falling into Tobias’ mind. The man in question is smiling at Will fondly, inching closer as Will’s eyes glaze over with Tobias opening to him. The pleasure of being seen by Will Graham is so keen, that Hannibal has a sharp pang of jealousy at Will reading him like this. He feels cheated but he also feels afraid. Of what he might see, of what he might say. Having seen Hannibal, would Tobias be preferable? That fear is unfounded, he knows, as Tobias is a worthy artist, but nothing like Hannibal except in taste. What he wants from Will, is the same, but Hannibal would never demand from Will what he was unwilling to give. He only hopes Will’s anger does not prevent him from seeing that. 

Will jerks as if he has been electrocuted. And Will’s eyes are wide, his body rigid as if frozen. And for a second, he is silent. Then Will explodes into an outburst, stunning both men in audience and starts to chant “No, please, no. I don’t want to!” pleading with Tobias as if Tobias was already acting out his fantasies on Will. The reaction is so violent, Will shuts his eyes from the onslaught of his vision and is yelling and hyperventilating, spiralling into shock and a severe panic attack. 

“Will...” Hannibal automatically reaches out, wanting to comfort and protect. Forgetting for the moment that comfort should be the least of his concerns, when Tobias grabs Will by the shoulder and pulls him to his chest, wrapping the wire over Will’s neck. 

Hannibal snarls. The knife in his palm is clenched tight, ready to be buried in the flesh of his enemy, but he cannot. He cannot risk Will, under any circumstances. Will, who is whimpering and crying, panting and moaning in pain as if he is being stabbed... or worse. He itches to hold him and rears at being denied Tobias’ flesh wrenching apart under his hands. 

The absolute horror of watching Will disappear beyond a door with his enemy, who wanted to devour him, was dreadful to say the least. His heart was pumping at a rate beyond his control, his face was crumpled in a scowl and fear was running riot. But it was incomparable to the sensation of hearing Will cry out and a loud thump as something heavy dropped to the floor. 

And then silence. 

_Please. NO._

The door opened, and Tobias Budge stepped through. Alone. His face was thunderous. Hannibal felt his heart stop. His breath halted and time froze. 

_Will..._

_No...._

**_No._ **

There was a moment when both men mutely glared at each other in a tense standoff. Tobias was drawn and resigned. Now that Will was dead, he could finally kill Hannibal. Hannibal was distraught. The despair turned to grief, the grief to rage. And finally raging bloodlust. Pressure dropped in Hannibal’s chest and his breath shallowed. 

Tobias mutely dropped the wire between his fingers and began to twirl it rapidly. 

Hannibal roared. 

* * *

Hannibal was careful not to let his rage overpower him. But even as he was aware of that fact, the bloodlust inside him bursting out was hard to ignore. He wanted to rip Tobias limb from limb. He wanted to cut down Tobias’ front from sternum to groin and rip out his lungs and then his heart and watch as Tobias struggled for breath and life. 

But even so, his movements were calculated as Tobias swung his weapon. As it was limited in range and in motion, having to swing to inflict damage. On its own, it would be useless without momentum. So, Hannibal took it from him. He felt no pain even as the wire dug into his wrist and Tobias pulled, and he pulled back. Hannibal swung forward to rid Tobias of his traction on his arm, but Tobias spun them around, using his momentum against him. Grabbing the glass side table, upending the books Will had dropped on them and smashing them into Hannibal’s elbow. 

Hannibal gripped tight and smashed his head against Tobias. The effect was brief and Tobias only dazed for a second for Hannibal to shove him into his desk and fly into him. They tumbled off the desk and both caught their breath. Unarmed, Tobias was not defenceless. Kicking out to disarm Hannibal’s knife, he missed by a margin, and the displaced wind whooshed by Hannibal at the same instant he jabbed the letter opener into Tobias’ leg. He grunted in pain, and Hannibal crowed inwardly, already eager for the blood spilling from him. But in his eagerness, he was slow to react to Tobias’ punches. And he was strong. Hannibal delivered and Tobias answered. 

The blows rained on Hannibal’s ribs, his arms as he tried to block and then his abdomen, knocking the air from his lungs. Tobias gave a powerful kick, sending Hannibal flying into the ladder behind him, bruising his back and further winding him. Hannibal snarled at his opponent, who had wrenched his knife from the wound. Tobias paused to return Hannibal’s venom, knife in hand. 

He raised it to bring down a killing stab, but Hannibal was quicker. With a lightning dodge, Tobias had brought down the knife not on Hannibal, but on the ladder, knocking it from his own grasp. And with a quick fluid spin, he whipped round and grabbed Tobias’ arm and pulled. The resulting scream had Hannibal grinning. But he would not let this rival rise again. 

Mounting the downed man before he could recover and return attacks, pathetic though it would be with his one dislocated arm, Hannibal began raining blow after blow on Tobias’ face, smashing in that skull and drowning out the music he had crooned at Will until it was silent. Bringing the deadly dance to an end. 

Hannibal wanted to take the knife that had fallen unto the side and plunge it into the soggy flesh of this bezonian’s chest and dig out his heart. He wanted to sink his teeth into it, while he still had eyes to see and watch as Hannibal devoured him. 

But a single thought consumed him as he panted and caught his breath. Through the pain that was making its presence known from the fading adrenaline to the heat rising from his body. He scrambled to his feet and lifted his head to the plain white door. 

_“Will...”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Hanni and Will have a tender moment all beat up and bloodied <3
> 
> Hannibal's battle cry can be internal or external depending on your interpretation of him
> 
> Did you like it? :D
> 
> Poor Hanni would've liked to have dragged it out but it would blow his cover and its not the right time. VENGEANCE IS NOT AS IMPORTANT AS WILL 
> 
> *anime tears*


	20. I was worried you were dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was worried you were dead.” Hannibal smiles at him. It is so pure and good, Will stares for a moment, heart wrenching. He nods and ducks his head to avoid looking too deep into those eyes. 
> 
> “No need to be so dramatic...” he mumbles. 
> 
> Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on Will’s. “I saw you go through that door with Tobias. I heard a scuffle and a body drop to the floor.” The hand tightens. “And you didn’t return...” 
> 
> Will blinks in surprise at the depth of emotion in Hannibal’s eyes and he looks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my freaky darlings :3
> 
> It has been so long! How have you been?
> 
> Its been dramatic for me. Lots of family hospitalisations, i got back on medications, i'm trying to write even if i don't feel like. its been a rough few months mentally for me.
> 
> I've finally got past a small hurdle in this fic that will ease the way to the next arc of the story but its not written yet, so this fic might take a bit anyway.
> 
> ANYWAY
> 
> THE ROMANCE BEGINS

Hannibal did not stop to gloat over his victory, exhausted though he was. He had greater concerns. Dropping the knife, he bounded to the door in anxious strides and burst through the other side. The sight that greeted him was one that stopped his heart. Very few moments in Hannibal’s life had him afraid. Never for himself, but to those precious to him. The last time, he had lost a little one. Now, Will lay sprawled on the floor, blood pooling around his head, his eyes shut and his mouth slack. He looked dead. 

“ _Will!”_ his mind screamed. Darting to the still body, he gingerly touched Will’s vitals, fearing the worst. The timid bumps of a pulse had Hannibal breathing again, and he gently but hurriedly picked Will up in his arms and carried him back into his office, laying him out on the chaise. He calls for medical help, and calls Jack Crawford. All the while, he keeps his eyes on Will, whose head wound is just starting to stop bleeding. His breathing is shallow but stable. All signs point to a grade 3 concussion that should not have lingering side effects given Will’s medical history. He knows the facts, but his heart refuses to calm. Will is sprawled on his couch bleeding, and he feels helpless and small, just like when he was a boy. He had vowed never to fail himself again, and yet he had. He had hesitated. He should have killed Tobias sooner. 

_So many regrets..._ Hannibal sighs. 

He rests over Will, barely looking away to grip at his leg. The pain is inconsequential. And he has to be ready with a tale to spin when the cavalry arrives. 

* * *

Will stirs slowly, consciousness streaming in slowly and painfully. Unlike the last time he woke up groggy, this time his head spikes with pain. He squints as he opens his eyes to find figures standing over him. He recognises the uniforms and catches up to the situation quickly. His body feels heavy and resists his efforts to move, but he gradually hefts his heavy head then torso. He glances around, finding Hannibal seated a few feet away at his desk being reluctantly tended to by an exasperated EMT. As soon as he locks eyes with Will, he brushes the man away and immediately approaches Will’s side. His eyes full of relief. 

Will blinks blurrily and accepts the warmth in that gaze and the warmth he feels in return. It's comforting and he cannot deny it, that it feels good to have someone care for him. He is too dizzy to remember why he should be angry with Hannibal and too tired to care. The area around them clears and Hannibal sits in the chair by Will. He helps Will to a more upright position but insists he remains lying down. He takes in Hannibal as well, bruised, cut and bleeding. Somehow though, Hannibal still has a poise – though rumpled and dishevelled, he is the epitome of professionalism with just the right hint of frazzled. It’s a perfect suit. But for a fissure of emotion reserved only for Will. Hannibal runs through some clinical questions that Will sluggishly answers, and Hannibal visibly relaxes. There is a silence as Hannibal sighs and gazes down at Will with a tender smile that has Will softening. 

“I was worried you were dead.” Hannibal smiles at him. It is so pure and good, Will stares for a moment, heart wrenching. He nods and ducks his head to avoid looking too deep into those eyes. 

“No need to be so dramatic...” he mumbles. 

Hannibal’s hand comes to rest on Will’s. “I saw you go through that door with Tobias. I heard a scuffle and a body drop to the floor.” The hand tightens. “And you didn’t return...” 

Will blinks in surprise at the depth of emotion in Hannibal’s eyes and he looks away. Will blinks and takes in the room more. There are body bags on the ground, and Jack Crawford is standing over them frowning. As he always does. 

“You called Jack?” Will asks. 

“Should I not have?” Hannibal smiles. 

Will looks away again and gulps. “Isn't it dangerous?” 

“Only if you want it to be.” 

Will looks up surprised again. He blinks, thoughts slow to return. But he understands that Hannibal was letting the ball roll into Will’s court. He had the power here. Should he approach Jack with his suspicions, Jack might listen this time. It would offer him an opportunity with this attack to look at Hannibal a little too close for comfort. It might be a path for Will to bid for freedom. But the thought of not being with Hannibal, even as a patient...it seemed wrong and unhinging. Where else would he go? Where else would he feel safe? And was that not a concerning thought... Will still felt empty and weak, depressed and unmotivated. And even were it otherwise, why would he go back to his old life? He has been irrevocably changed. Both of them had. The anger that he had felt before, Will found, had blazed out and smothered as quickly as it had ignited. Now, Will just felt tired. What Will wanted was to curl up in front of Hannibal’s crackling magnificent fire, bundle up in blankets and go to sleep, the smell of the man around him. Will wondered if this meant he was truly co-dependent on Hannibal now. He wondered if he should care. He wondered when he started caring. 

Jack approaches then and questions the events again. Hannibal seems to already have provided a statement, and it seemed like Will does not even need to encourage Jack’s naturally suspicious nature. He questions the statement, but Hannibal’s logic is sound. Hannibal continues to pat Will’s forehead with a swab and Will lets his eyes droop shut for a second. The next, and Hannibal has gotten up and he catches him saying that he is accompanying Will to the hospital to have a head scan and treat his own injuries personally, knowing he would get a job done better. Jack has no choice, seeing Will tuckered out and weak but to accept the statement and move on. 

Pleased with the ending of this turn of events, Hannibal allows himself and Will to be escorted out. Will feels groggy and safe when Hannibal pats a blanket around his shoulders. Will blinks and the next moment, he sees he is lying on a hospital bed being examined, Hannibal catches his eye and smiles down at him, brushing the hair from his forehead away from the cuts. 

“I don’t like hospitals…” Will shivers delicately. Hannibal tugs the shock blanket, though it scratches at Will’s skin, over his chest more securely in response. 

“Rest, Will. You’ll be home soon.” 

_Home_. A concept that is foreign to them both. Is that house his home? Is Hannibal his home? Will is too drowsy with pain medication to ponder further, shuts his eyes and allows himself to drift away in Hannibal’s stream. 

* * *

Will settles into Hannibal’s sofa, that is easily the most well-designed sofa Will has encountered. It is almost unfair how Hannibal has an eye for such details. Now, Will knows he has been cheated of the luxury of a good couch, but then he never really bothered with interior decorating much anyway. His old couch he looted from a yard sale. And Will was more for pre-loved and worn comforts than expertly and expensively designed ones. He is drifting in and out of sleep, even as Hannibal bustles about, keeping an eye on him from the kitchen. More than once, Will has complained in his sleepy stupor – forgetting he is supposed to be surly and curt with Hannibal – to sit and rest, he was injured in the attack as well. Neither of them discusses Tobias nor that Hannibal most likely killed him without remorse. Though in self-defence, Will feels cheated of a bit of societal judgement had the reverse occurred, and Will had to defend himself from criticism. 

Hannibal only smiles and continues on, tucking Will comfortably as they sit together. Will’s thoughts wander to the attack and Hannibal watches in fascination as he always does when Will wanders inwards. Will sighs, replaying the attack in his mind when Tobias was wrangling him like an unruly horse, intent on taming him and bringing him home. The thought sends shivers down his spine and he sighs. 

“Why is it that no one believes me when I say I don’t need help?” Will huffs in frustration. Hannibal’s amused smile widens to a real one and he tilts his head. 

“Well. When ‘we’ find someone we trust, it is a connection that is rare and important for ‘us’.” Hannibal replies. "Our natural instinct is to protect – to eliminate any threat to what is precious to us.” Will gazes at him intently. While what Hannibal says can be a referral to a general person, it is referring to himself and Tobias. It unsettles him – both the return to the easy domesticity between them inexplicably, and the mention of the killer they had just fought. Then there is Hannibal. 

The Ripper had always been something apart, something other. Since when does Hannibal equate himself to others? 

“Well, he nearly killed me trying.” Will remarked remembering the hard shove into the table and the blackout after. “And what ‘protection’ are you guys providing anyway? It definitely never is with my consent...” Will pouted. 

Hannibal breathed a small laugh. A first that Will has seen in a long time. He does not realise that it has been a long time that Hannibal has smiled at him with such warmness. Probably due to his recalcitrant attitude from being framed. Nor is it undeserved but…Will warms a little at it. 

“What did you see when you looked at Tobias?” Hannibal asked quietly. Will’s smile died. “It is alright if you don’t want to discuss it, but your extreme reaction concerned me.” 

Will frowned and shook his head. “I saw... I saw what he wanted with me. The desires and hopes... he didn’t really have any definitive plans... he just wanted to be my friend. Just like you, huh?” Will laughs. Hannibal’s face remains grim. His hands reaching for Will’s forehead to feel his temperature, but is more an excuse to touch than any medical concerns. 

“It's funny... I haven't been able to ‘see’ people... ever since...” Will trails off. He shakes his head to clear it and continues sleepily. “It was overwhelming. Partly, I think because I was the victim in it this time, not the perpetuator. I saw both his desire and my helplessness, and I felt...” 

“Powerless.” Hannibal answered. Will shrugged, leaning back and relaxing again. “it seems the imagination Jack borrowed from you is returning...” Hannibal smiles. 

At that, Will barks a laugh, tickling Hannibal with the slight smile he has earned from Will. “I should have charged interest.” Will jokes. “It seems I am coming to life again....” Will muses. His face drops and the humour dies, as if reminded that he should not be feeling happy or bantering with Hannibal... Prompting Hannibal to act quickly lest Will revert back to his depressive state. 

“Then, perhaps we should share a libation to celebrate?” He offers with a smile. Will’s dour mood lifts as he looks back at Hannibal with a sceptical smile, one that Hannibal holds a special place in his heart for. 

“Is that wise, as my doctor, to offer alcohol to a concussed patient?” Will teases. 

“No, but then, you’re not a typical patient either.” Hannibal replies with an elegant lift of his hand, walking to the bar cart and pouring out a small portion of whiskey for them both. “Perhaps a small amount, diluted.” He offers one to Will, who accepts it with a smile. The same one he always gives when he is reluctant to be happy. As if he feels happiness is a thing to be rationed and not to pamper yourself with. Antithetical to all that Hannibal had been. Hannibal is determined not to let him continue with that mindset. They drink in good humour and in silence, but it is not awkward or sour. It is comfortable and warm as the fire they have burning between them. 

“What did he do to you?” Hannibal asks. The question is light, even with the heaviness of the subject matter and Will dips his head. 

“We struggled. I didn’t want to go quietly. I said some choice things.” Will gave a tiny smirk. Hannibal answers with the tenderness of comfort he had yearned to give since the moment he laid eyes on Will wrenched from death. He strokes a gentle hand through Will’s hair. Touch flighty and soft with tentative affection that until now had been violently rejected. He relishes and tucks this memory of Will and his hands in his soft hair in his memory palace. Treasuring it for years to come. “I don’t think he meant to hurt me... It just got out of hand and he didn’t really stop to check if I was really dead. He just needed to kill you to tie up loose ends... But... ’If I can’t have him no one shall’... Thank god it didn’t come to that. But he was willing to go as far as he needed.” 

Hannibal frowned at that familiar sentiment. Will’s eyes were droopy and he was dropping off to sleep, lost in his thoughts as he was. Hannibal tucked Will into the sofa with a blanket draped carefully over him and coaxed Will to relax. 

* * *

As Will’s eyes close, Hannibal turns his attention to his leg and wounds, already tending to what is left of his superficial injuries. The bustle of the emergency room is familiar and brings back the old association of memories of a more hurried time. A youthful adulthood, of new beginnings. Both as a fully-fledged surgeon, and the Chesapeake Ripper. Hannibal barely had the time nor energy to indulge in his art and it was a rare period of his life he almost completely subsisted on store bought meat. Quality though he did not skimp on. An old acquaintance comes by, recognising Hannibal and does a cursory check and engages small talk, allowing him his space of self-treatment. A nurse standing to the side slides Will’s sleeve up to check for injuries and catches the bandages on his arm. 

“Excuse me, Doctor Lecter.” she interjects after she efficiently removes it to tend to it. “There are some lacerations on his arm... They appear self-inflicted.” 

Hannibal rankles at the nurse being presumptuous of Will’s body, though he knows he is being irrational as she is doing her due diligence. He carefully explains Will’s situation, his relation as his therapist, and it is enough for the doctors and nurses to leave it be, as Hannibal had intended. He allows himself to feel a tiny bit pleased that therapists are allowed such possession over their patients in the name of privacy, and how easy it is to hold Will close. The procedures pass in a blur and Hannibal worries are assuaged. 

The entire way home, Will sleeps and Hannibal sets him down on the sofa when Will rouses himself as they cross the door way. He is overwhelmed with the feeling of relief and gratitude. The close encounter had disturbed him deeply. He should not be as surprised by the emotions Will has brought out in him thus far, and yet he remains pleasantly so consistently again and again. He smiles at the thought of Will. Not since Mischa has it been so. Particularly the experience of seeing Will prone and seemingly dead has left him unusually shaken. He also supposes he should thank Tobias for letting this experience draw Will closer to him. Whether due to Will’s weakened state – allowing Hannibal to comfort and care for him with nary a word in defiance and refusal – that Will has started to soften after the traumatic experience. Hannibal supposes that the quick and easy death, as opposed to the drawn and painful one he would have subjected Tobias to, should Will have been dead, is his payment. Traumatising experiences often force a rush of emotion. Though the thought is fleeting through his mind, Hannibal has to consciously talk himself down from manufacturing further traumatising experiences to open Will up, though it would be the quickest way to do so... Even as the trauma of the attack ripples through Will, Hannibal is glad that Will has softened enough to allow Hannibal’s care and proximity. And most of all for Will’s opening of his mind, tentatively and cautiously, to Hannibal again. He is glad of this tiniest bit of tenderness. He is overjoyed at being allowed to love him, even just a tiny bit. It gives him hope for true forgiveness. Hannibal vows even if it takes him every day of his life, he will earn Will’s forgiveness and trust. 

And seeing Will smile, sharing just a semblance of their friendship before all the unpleasantness... it makes Hannibal believe in love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter AGES ago even before i wrote the actual fight scene but because i hadn't written anything directly after, i didn't want to post it. I'm at the point where what i have written so far, while i'm unsatisfied with it - enough time has passed that i don't give as much of a shit that it sucks so i shall tweak it a bit before posting then next chapter
> 
> This is my baby and i'm so glad you like it and keep liking it. 
> 
> I hope i don't disappoint.
> 
> P.S. I just gt the free trial of netflix to watch hannibal and got a vpn to let it run in the background while i do other stuff and maybe even watch it again just to refresh or put myself in the mood. I'm trying to drive up the numbers for Netflix to get their shit together, scrape some dimes between them and fund Bryan Fuller S4.
> 
> So that's how i'm contributing to #SaveHannibalS4

**Author's Note:**

> KUDO AND SUBSCRIBE :D
> 
> Comment to tell me I’m doing good
> 
> P. S. I do not consent to my work being reposted or used in any capacity elsewhere without my permission  
> Please do not repost or use my works in any ‘unofficial apps’


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